


The True Language of a Grown Man's Heart

by whimsicule



Category: Football RPF
Genre: 2005-2011, Age Difference, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 14:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14956346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicule/pseuds/whimsicule
Summary: It’s the 17th August 2005 and Javier just turned 32 a week ago.Leo is only 18.





	The True Language of a Grown Man's Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this years ago. It's the result of my lifelong obsession with Javier Zanetti, passed onto me by my grandfather. It was published to my livejournal that no longer exists, and I am publishing it here for no other reason than me feeling awfully nostalgic. 
> 
> It was strangely easy to write, despite the rather heavy themes, despite the excessive research, and to this day it remains - in my opinion - one of the most cohesive and complete things I've ever written. This story is also one of the few that does not make me cringe when I re-read it. 
> 
> Please do enjoy. I'd love to hear your thoughts. 
> 
> ([Always happy to chat.](http://www.whimsicule.tumblr.com/))
> 
> P.S.: Title comes from Tina Dico's 'In Love and War'.

***

 

Javier can’t remember who told him about Leo. Maybe it had been Nicolás or Esteban, or even Juan. Perhaps he had just switched on the TV at one random moment to witness his debut for Barcelona. He just can’t remember. It seems odd to him now, that he can’t remember the beginning of their story. 

But maybe that’s not fair. It’s not really _their_ story. It’s Leo’s and Javier isn’t a part of it. He should consider himself lucky to be a witness.

 

 

What Javier does remember, however, is the first time they met.

 

 

It’s the 17th August 2005 and of course by now, he knows exactly who Leo is. A match winner, a boy blessed with talent, Argentina’s new talisman – already – almost winning the U20 World Cup on his own. Yes, Javier knows who Leo is. But he is still almost startled when Leo first steps on the pitch in Hungary.

Javier knows that Leo is a small guy; he’s watched him play in the Netherlands. Seeing him a few feet away, looking slightly pale and shy, he can’t quite believe how tiny he actually is, especially in comparison to the players Javier has to face in Serie A – in comparison to himself. For a moment, Javier wants to shake his head in disbelief. Playing against boys of his own age, fair enough, but he’s not sure that Leo could even last ten minutes against the likes of Maicon or Nesta.

Five minutes later, the ball lands in front of Leo’s feet and Javier never doubts him again.

When he headbutts a Hungarian player who is almost twice his size in the 63rd minute, Javier knows that Leo will be a handful for any defender in Europe, hell even the world, and something in his head switches when he watches Leo walk off the pitch, head low but fists clenched. 

Javier can’t name it, but whatever it is, it makes him find Leo in the tunnel before anyone else can reach him. His head is still lowered, body slumped down on a bench like all of Argentina is already weighing him down, cheeks red and Javier refuses to decide whether it’s because of rage or tears. 

Feeling the strain in his legs, Javier crouches down in front of Leo and puts a hand on his shoulder. His thumb fills the void just below Leo’s collarbone. “Don’t worry about it,” he says and wants to take it back the next second, because it’s probably the stupidest thing he’s said in a very long time. “You’ll get your proper debut sooner than later.” 

Leo looks up, eyes red but so clear that Javier can see his own face reflected in them, down to every fine line on his forehead and it almost throws him off, makes him blink. He is used to attention, to people looking at him or looking up to him; he has to, being captain for both club and country. But Leo’s focus is so undivided that Javier – well, he is not sure. He thinks he might be staring back with a similar intensity until the dressing room fills with the remaining team members, all voicing their discontentment with the refereeing. 

It’s the 17th August 2005 and Javier just turned 32 a week ago. 

Leo is only 18.

  

 

Javier was brought up as a Catholic and he’s always stayed true to his faith. But he isn’t so naïve to think that every football player he encounters, who has a rosary or the face of Christ tattooed on his arm, is equally serious about his beliefs. He knows about players buying hookers, cheating on their partners, or hooking up with each other and he thinks it’s their business, doesn’t judge and wouldn’t ever cast the first stone. He also knows about captains’ privileges and rituals involving the newbies. 

But Javier has never made use of that. He’s married, he is a father and he has never had the… _urge._  

It’s the recovering training session after the friendly against Hungary when Javier raises his eyes, and his glance crosses with Leo’s. For the shortest of moments, they freeze and Leo smiles – so faintly that Javier would in retrospect think he just imagined it. And then there’s a tug, just beneath his ribs. For a second he thinks he has pulled a muscle – then he gets it.

 

 

It unsettles him.

 

 

Javier briefly thinks about avoiding Leo before almost immediately changing his mind, deeming that thought inappropriate. He’s the captain, he can’t just ignore their youngest team member simply because – because what, even? 

So he resumes training as usual, thinks about the upcoming World Club qualifying match and runs his laps, one after the after. He sets his own pace and sometimes Esteban will catch up to him, maybe drop a few comments, before picking up or dropping the tempo to pester someone else. It’s not long until a second pair of brightly coloured boots appears next to his again and when Javier glances up briefly, he finds Leo casually jogging by his side. They run on in silence, comfortably quiet, with only their steady breath cutting through air. Leo keeps his head low, Javier can’t help but let his eyes flicker towards his face every few steps. 

Eventually, Leo speaks. “If I play in the qualifier,” he says, “it’d be my first official match.” 

Javier thinks he might know what Leo is insinuating. There have been rumours. 

“You know, Spain wanted to call me up too.” 

Javier keeps running. The thought of Leo in red makes him feel slightly nauseous. 

“That was an interesting offer,” Leo continues, starting to sound breathless. They’ve been running for about fifteen minutes now. “I think it would’ve been nice to play with them, the Barça guys especially.” 

This time, Javier can barely hold back a laugh. He finally turns his head, looks at Leo with raised brows and the younger forward meet his eyes. “Don’t try and tell me you even considered that for a second.” 

Leo holds his gaze seriously for a moment, then his expression quickly dissipates into a smile. “I’m not a very good liar, am I?” 

“You’re not,” Javier agrees. “Maybe you should work on that.” 

The next second, he asks himself why he would ever give Leo that advice. 

  

 

Leo is subbed on in their qualifying match against Paraguay. Javier thinks he perhaps shouldn’t feel so relieved that now, there won’t be anywhere else for Leo – but he does.

  

 

It’s easy for him to fall straight back into routine once he gets back to Milan and resumes with training. Inter appears to have a good start of the season when they win their first match, but then they lose the second against Palermo and are back down to earth. Javier does well to keep his focus on football and his family, at first, but then he comes home early from practice one day and Paula is still out, so he switches on the TV and stumbles upon the La Liga highlights of the previous day. 

When Leo is subbed on, the crowd in the Camp Nou erupts and only a few minutes later, after flawless interplay between him and Ronaldinho, every single person in the stands rises to their feet. Javier has been playing professional football for a long time, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything quite like that. He hopes that Inter won’t have to face Barcelona too early in the Champions League. 

But that doesn’t happen. Inter Milan is kicked out by Villarreal and since Pekerman has left him out of any call-ups for Argentina, Javier only sees Leo on the flickering screen, tearing a muscle in a match against Chelsea. 

Javier is sitting in a small hotel room near Valencia when his cellphone goes off. 

“Sorry you lost.” Leo’s voice already sounds familiar in his ears. He doesn’t wonder about how the other even got hold of his number, or why he is calling, he just takes a deep breath and lets himself fall back, head hitting the overly soft pillows. 

“It’s alright,” Javier replies and it is now. He hates losing, but he has learnt that it doesn’t help to get upset over anything that has already happened. “There’s still the league left to play for.” Then he remembers. “How’s the leg?” 

“You heard?” Leo sounds sincerely surprised. 

“I saw.” 

Leo is silent for a moment. Javier can hear his teammates discussing something in the room next to his. 

“They say that’s it. End of season.” 

His voice doesn’t sound as steady anymore. Leo may already be a great footballer, but he’s still inexperienced, and Javier knows that at his age, every injury feels like a death sentence. Suddenly, he is overcome by the urge to stand in front of Leo, face to face, and he catches himself wondering how long it would take him to get to Barcelona in a rented car, or even a cab. He shakes his head forcefully and rubs his face. 

“You’ll be fine, Leo. Trust me.” 

“I know I’ll be eventually,” Leo replies immediately and Javier guesses he’s had that conversation before, heard the same words from others and perhaps he should have said something else, because he doesn’t want to be _others_ for Leo. He – “I just want to play in the final, if we make it.” 

“You will,” Javier says, even though he has no clue about the severity of Leo’s injury. “It’s more than a month away and if you don’t rush your recovery, you’ll be fit in time.” He wants to add _You’re just 18_ and _There is more than a decade of finals ahead of you_ , but he doesn’t, because normal parameters don’t apply to Leo.  

Leo sighs heavily on the other end of the line. “We missed you at call-up,” he suddenly changes the topic and it hits Javier unprepared. “Juan looks weird with the captain’s armband.” 

It’s a sting to his heart on various levels, and Javier has to try hard to keep his composure. If there’s one thing that will get to him, it’s the Albiceleste. “It’ll grow on him,” he says despite himself. 

Leo seems unconvinced. “I don’t think it will. And… I don’t know if I’m in a position to ask, but – why hasn’t the _mister_ called you up?” 

Javier laughs noiselessly. “Do you want my official opinion or my personal?” he asks back, not sure why. If anyone else had called, he’d just given the standard answer. 

“Whatever you want,” Leo replies, voice low, or maybe Javier is just imagining it. 

He has to clear his throat. “Because he is an idiot,” he ends up saying, because he’s fed up and frustrated and he doesn’t think that Leo will tell anyone. It’s strange, because Javier hasn’t even said that to Paula. “But don’t worry,” he feels like he needs to add. “You guys will manage just fine without me.”

 

 

After that, they start to talk regularly. Javier tends to call Leo when he’s on his way to practice or just leaving and usually hangs up before he enters his house or the training ground. He is not keeping a secret from anyone and he would tell if asked, but he is just checking up on Leo’s recovery. Javier knows what it’s like to be injured, to be missing out on crucial games and he wants to be supportive. He might not be his official captain, but he’ll always feel a certain kind of responsibility. Javier is just thinking about the team.

 

  

Leo recovers in time for the final, just like Javier believed he would. He doesn’t make the bench. Barcelona wins anyway.

 

 

There’s still bustle from the living room when Javier steps out onto the terrace. He’s been watching the final with a few teammates from Inter, invited them over because he’s the captain and usual host. He thinks Paula is taking Sol to bed – the noise had kept her awake – and everyone else is still distracted by post-match analysis and discussions, so he decides to seize the moment. 

There is a very high probability that he won’t even reach him this close after the match, with celebrations in full swing, but Javier thinks that Leo might not feel like partying. He hasn’t known Leo for very long, but he has a fair idea of his character and the frustration of not participating might be outweighing the joy. 

Javier only gets his voicemail and hangs up before he can mumble any senseless words. He thinks about just texting him, but eventually decides that Leo will call him if he feels like talking. If not – then that’s fine. 

When he turns to re-enter the house, he finds Esteban standing in the doorway, silently observing him. Javier raises his eyebrows at him. “What?” 

Esteban steps outside and shuts the glass door behind him, beer bottle in hand and he takes a sip before speaking. “Important phone call? Want to switch allegiances now that Barcelona has won the title that still eludes you?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Javier says and Esteban smirks. “I was just – trying to reach someone.” 

“Leo?” 

Javier tries not to look surprised. “He’s been having a tough time with injuries,” he replies. “I don’t want him to beat himself up over not playing tonight.” 

“He’s just a kid,” Esteban says and Javier has to swallow hard. “And they’ve got Ronaldinho and Deco, Eto’o. He’ll just have to be patient.” 

“Would you be?” Esteban just shrugs. “I don’t think patience is his strongest suit,” Javier continues. “And if Pekerman takes him to Germany, it won’t be easy for him either.” 

“Always worrying about the team, _Pupi_ , eh?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Just – have an eye on him, you and Masche.” 

“Sure thing. Maybe I’ll lure him to Inter, too. I’m sure Mancini would love him. Would save us future trouble.” Then he turns back towards the door. “And _Pupi?_ Just –” 

He breaks off and Javier furrows his brows. “Just what?” 

Esteban is silent for a moment, just long enough to make Javier worry about what he is going to tell him. Then, “Don’t get caught up in anything”, and he is alone again. 

 

  

Leo doesn’t call him back that evening or the day after and Javier feels pathetic for not letting his phone out of sight for the next week. Eventually, he tells himself not to care, spends time with his daughter and then follows the scandal involving AC Milan and Juventus and other teams, which results in Inter winning the league, despite originally finishing third. It’s a trophy, but it doesn’t feel like a win, not to Javier. 

Just before the World Cup starts – the Albiceleste has already started their preparation camp – he sends Leo a text, wishing him good luck. Leo replies just over a minute after. 

_Thanks. I’ll miss you._

He feels light-headed for the rest of the day – and he hates himself for it.

 

  

He goes on holiday, needs distraction, can’t just sit at home and watch his team play in the World Cup without him. Paula lets him sleep in, they take Sol to the beach and Javier tries so hard not to think of Leo and the Albiceleste that he ends up thinking of nothing but them. On the day of Argentina’s first match, Javier can’t sit still for even a second. He wakes up at the crack of dawn and decides to go for a run, powers himself out so much that he goes back to bed upon his return and sleeps until noon. 

By early evening, Javier is even annoyed with himself because he is such a bundle of nerves, so it comes as no surprise when Paula tells him to just watch the match and put an end to this misery. He’d be lying if he said that it doesn’t hurt to see the team, knowing he’s not a part of it anymore, but he guesses he will have to get used to that; he’s certainly not getting any younger. Javier does feel better though when the team wins against the Ivory Coast and after that, it becomes a ritual. He will run in the mornings, sleep again, be on edge until he can see the familiar faces flickering over the TV screen. 

Leo scores the sixth goal against Serbia and Montenegro. He becomes the youngest Argentine footballer to play and score in a World Cup. Javier is positive this won’t Leo’s last entry in the history books.

 

 

“Congratulations.” 

Leo’s voice is hoarse on the other end. “ _Thank you.”_ He sounds distracted. 

“Is this a bad time?” 

_“No, not at all,”_ Leo replies hastily, almost panicked. “ _I’m just hiding. Gabi said something about baptism of fire and I don’t want to find out what he means by that.”_

Javier smiles. “Gabi is all talk, don’t worry. Just stay close to _Cuchu_.” 

_“I’d rather stay close to Masche. Cuchu has been eyeing me weirdly. I don’t think he likes me much.”_

Javier wants to groan in annoyance. “No, I’m sure he does, he’s just – odd.” Taking a deep breath, because his head feels strangely airy again, he continues. “Listen, I want you in the starting line-up against the Dutch, okay? Pekerman truly is an idiot if he doesn’t let you start.” 

_“He already is an idiot for not calling you up,”_ Leo answers, sounding so serious that Javier feels a lump in his throat, making him long for a glass of water – or perhaps something stronger. _“But I promise. I’ll start this game and the next and I’ll score another goal too. And, if not – I will give my best anyway.”_

And he can’t help but let his mind wonder. Wonder far off and to places where Leo will take him and them and their country before he can remind himself that it’s not fair to even secretly put pressure on Leo, so he shakes his head and forces his mind back into the present. 

“You don’t need to promise me anything.”

 

 

It’s all over in the quarterfinal. The German keeper denies both Roberto and Esteban. Leo remains on the bench the entire time and Javier throws his glass against the wall. It shatters like Argentina’s dream of a third star.

  

 

It only rings two times before the line cracks and somebody answers. Esteban’s voice is slurred and heavy and Javier can’t quite distinguish whether it is from alcohol or disappointment – maybe both. He breathes and pushes his own negative feelings aside. 

“ _Don’t say it,”_ Esteban speaks up before Javier can think of anything appropriate that would comfort his friend. “ _Don’t tell me it’s not my fault, because it is_.” 

Javier figure that a similar conversation has taken place several times this night already and Esteban has most likely aligned an impressive amount of counter-arguments. “It’s nobody’s fault,” he ends up saying anyway. “These things just happen.” 

“ _They only ever happen to us_ ,” Esteban replies. “ _Fucking Germans_.” He swallows hard. “ _We would’ve really needed you here, Pupi. Fuck, we still need you here.”_

“How’s everyone doing?” 

There’s a brief moment of hesitation. It makes him worry. “ _Could be worse_ ,” is the dry reply. “ _Could be a lot better though. Some aren’t stomaching it all too well.”_  

“How’s Leo?” Javier is shamefully proud that he’s managed to only ask this now, but it still comes out rushed, almost panicked, as if there wasn’t an entire team to worry about, as if Leo – 

“ _Masche is trying to talk to him_ ,” Esteban tells him. _“But Leo isn’t talking, like he’s gone mute or something. Totally apathetic.”_  

Javier sees Leo’s pale face in front of his inner eye, his small frame and lithe figure, sitting on the substitute’s bench in complete desperation and utter helplessness and thinks that this must be like the Champions League final for him, only infinitely worse, because there’s no trophy in the end that could possibly console him. 

“Can you put him on the phone?” 

Esteban makes a sound low in his throat, not too pleased apparently. “ _I can try_ ,” he says. _“Doubt that he’ll miraculously find his voice though. Just give me a minute.”_ Javier can hear a faint creak, probably Esteban walking over hotel floorboards. _“Oh, and I take it as an insult that you’d rather talk to him than me.”_

Javier rolls his eyes. “You can make me pay once you’re back in Milan.” 

“ _I will, Pupi, and I won’t let you off so easily this time.”_  

In the background, Javier can hear knocking and hushed voices and although he doesn’t understand much of the conversation, the general consensus is that it’s not a good idea. Nevertheless, there are more heavy steps on floorboards, some rustling and more quiet talking taking place between Esteban and who Javier assumes to be Masche. 

_“Handing you over,”_ Esteban finally tells him and Javier holds back an audible sigh. _“I’ll see you in Milan, Pupi.”_

Javier guesses that the next sound is coming from the door being closed behind them – at least that’s what he hopes – but on the other end of the line, there’s completely silence after. The only indication that Leo is indeed holding the phone close is his slightly unsteady breathing. Javier needs a moment to collect his thoughts and he moves around on the terrace, bare feet and stone tiles still heated by the long-gone sun, house only partially illuminated behind his back. 

“I told you Pekerman was an idiot,” he ends up saying because he can’t think of anything else. It won’t comfort Leo in any way or lighten the heaviness of the fresh defeat, but it’s better than telling Leo he’s sorry for the loss – everyone else has already done that and clearly, it hasn’t helped. Javier takes a few more steps, then he sinks down on one of the cushioned chairs, suddenly feeling as exhausted as if he’d played the tournament with his team. “I don’t know what to tell you,” he continues, practically coming clean. “I know it hurts. It hurts me even now. But winning or losing… you have to know how to do both.” 

“ _I’ve lost before.”_  

The reply is so sudden and unexpected and, although Leo’s voice is quiet and raspy, startles him to no end, making his heart hammer against his ribcage in an almost painful fashion. 

“Of course, I –” but he doesn’t know hot to continue just yet, his brain still feels frozen in place and it’s a while until it catches on, making him wonder who would think that there is even one player on this earth that has never lost a match. But maybe Leo dazzles and excites so much already that people just forget. “That’s not what I meant,” Javier explains. “But life goes on. Football, as cruel as it sounds, goes on.” 

Leo doesn’t say anything to that and it’s as if Javier can see him, chewing on his lower lip in concentration, face reddened and pale at the same time, hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks. 

“If it’s of any consolation,” and Javier knows it most likely isn’t. “That wasn’t your last World Cup.” 

The next minutes, he only listens to Leo’s breath slowly steadying as he calms down and it surprisingly puts Javier’s mind more at rest too as he looks out into the garden where there are about a hundred toys strewn across the lawn, like a hurricane has wildered through the garden and not a one-year-old. 

“ _Where are you_?” 

Javier hesitates. He could say Italy, Lago di Como, _at home_. What he ends up saying is, “On holiday,” not really knowing what that information is to Leo anyway. 

“ _Can I see you?”_  

His voice is still quite, but there is a different tone to Leo’s voice and it makes Javier’s throat tighten and his neck heat up like he’s still sitting in the stinging sun of Italian summer. Without fully understanding why, he throws a hasty look over his shoulder, fearing that perhaps – but the living room and entire lower floor are still dark. 

“Why would you come see me, Leo, you…” but he trails off, stares off into space and suddenly can’t think anymore. 

Leo’s answer is solid and confident, table-turning. “ _Because I want to.”_  

Javier breathes. The air smells fresh, faintly sweet, drenched with the scent of blooming flowers and apricot trees from the neighbour’s garden. The grass has just been cut and watered and it reminds Javier of the football pitch at the San Siro. 

It would be so easy, he realizes now and maybe that’s what unsettles him most. It would be so easy to meet, so easy to tell Leo to come to this place, not far out but enough, the owner doesn’t talk. He could tell Paula that he’s just going to see Esteban or anyone from the team and she wouldn’t doubt him, why would she? Javier has never set a foot wrong in his life. 

But Javier wants to believe that he is a better man than that, although it immediately sickens him to the stomach. He is not a good man. Just backtracking on his previous thoughts makes his mind heavy with guilt. 

“Go home, Leo,” he says, not betraying the turmoil going on inside his head. “Spend time with your family, get some rest. You’ll need it for next season.” 

A moment passes and Javier thinks that Leo might argue, might further question or subtly pressure him and he prays that the young striker won’t, because he does not want to crumble. 

“ _Okay_ ,” Leo says eventually and Javier breathes an inaudible sigh of relief. 

But somehow he doesn’t quite believe that this conversation is over.

 

  

It’s been a year since he first met Leo face to face, Javier notices one day at practice and at first he thinks he must be wrong, because surely, it can’t be that long ago already, but then he has to accept that yes, it has b and that he is a year older once again, one year closer to retirement. He won’t quit for a while, Javier is sure of that. He is one of the veterans of the club, but he is as fit and fast as ever and lucky with injuries. 

Inter gets a brilliant start to the season and climbs to the top straight away and Javier has a good feeling; feels like they can get somewhere this year. With new signings such as Ibrahimovic and Maicon, there’s an entirely new dynamic to attack and defence that makes their game faster and Maicon gives the backline more stability, allowing Javier to venture up the flanks like he likes to do. 

Javier follows Barcelona too, although he wouldn’t admit that to anyone but Esteban, maybe Walter and Nicolás. It’s good to see Leo become a regular starter, believes that this sort of trust and confidence will make him grow and when Esteban laughs at him for knowing and caring so much, Javier just tells him that he’s preparing for a probably clash in the Champions League. 

As always during game season, time flies and Javier has barely time to think and ponder, barely time to comprehend it when Basile calls him up for a friendly match against France in February. 

  

 

It doesn’t come as a surprise that Leo is the first one he sees when he gets to the hotel where the Albiceleste is staying – he’s unconsciously looked for him. What does surprise him, however, is that Leo is the first one he can hear too. His laugh echoes across the lobby louder than Javier has ever heard him and he wonders how much has changed in a year and a bit. But maybe things haven’t changed and maybe Javier just doesn’t know Leo as well as he believed. 

They round a corner and see a few teammates already lounging on some leather armchairs. Leo is sitting on one and a new face to the squad – Agüero – has placed himself on the armrest, practically sitting half on Leo’s lap, pulling his hair and mumbling things into his ear. Leo is smiling and laughing and allowing Agüero to repetitively poke him into the side.

It stings. 

Before Javier can further focus on Leo, greetings are exchanged and he is welcomed back with a lot of enthusiasm, actually more than he thought he’d receive and it’s good to be back, so much better than anticipated. Soon, the entire team is gathered and the coaches usher them to their rooms to rest. 

Javier hopes to successfully hide his subtle – as he tells himself – disappointment that he doesn’t get the chance to talk to Leo at all on their first day; not during the light training session, dinner or even after. Esteban might be seeing through him, but in his case, he doesn’t mind that much. The next day passes similarly, Leo staying glued to Kun’s side permanently, Javier being surrounded by the senior members of the squad. He assumes it might seem unusual for either of them to break that automatic routine. 

The match against France is the next day. Javier plays as if he’d never been gone from the team, sets up the only goal, and walks off the pitch feeling more exhilarated than in a long time. They celebrate their new coach’s first win lightly afterwards, but Javier excuses himself early, earning him a few “old man”-calls, but he laughs them off; he’s just proven today that he’s not too old to play. 

He runs into Leo in the corridor leading to their respective rooms. Leo smiles. 

“Is _Cuchu_ in?” he asks as he nods towards Javier’s room. 

He can’t help but smile too. “He’s still entertaining the lot downstairs.” And then, before he can stop, “Do you want to come in?” 

The smile widens almost unnoticeably and Leo nods, waits for Javier to open the door and as soon as it shuts behind them, he wraps his arms around Javier’s taller frame, forehead resting against his shoulder. He feels his heart stutter momentarily, freezing, before he is able to hug Leo back, fingers sliding across his ribcage, hidden beneath oversized layers. His chin brushes the top of Leo’s head. 

“Your hair has gotten long,” is the first thing that springs to his mind, evoking a soft chuckle. 

“Ronnie says I’m trying to copy him,” Leo answers with a smile to his voice. “But I don’t think I could look like him even if I tried.” 

They let go of each other, although Leo’s right hand stays tangled in Javier’s shirt when they sit down on one of the beds. 

“Where have you left Kun?” 

Leo rolls his eyes. “Calling his girlfriend. Says all this cheesy stuff that makes me feel nauseous.” 

He laughs again, barely audible this time though, but his eyes are bright nonetheless, betraying that he doesn’t mind it as much as he says. Javier feels that familiar lightness in his head, heat creeping up toward the socket of his skull when Leo shifts and their knees brush through thin track pants. 

“Don’t you have a girlfriend to call?” 

Javier is not sure why he chose to say that and Leo’s expression changes, turns serious all of a sudden, even though his eyes don’t lose any of their shine. 

“Why would you ask that?” 

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. 

A solemn air surrounds them suddenly and Leo is awfully close, Javier notices now; too close not to notice, but still far enough to seem unintentional and random. And although he doesn’t know Leo as well as he’d like to, Javier is quite sure that Leo is perfectly aware of that. His eyes are disarming and deep and the long hair framing his face makes him look soft and young and just incredibly – magnetic. 

There is only one way or the other and both of them know that, but Javier hates the fact that apparently, it’s his decision to make. Leo has gone to this point and he won’t go any farther and he will accept either, which makes it so much worse. His heart is pounding and it’s so quiet that it almost deafens his ears, throbbing in his chest and making his blood rush. He just needs to lean forward to make it all stop. 

Javier closes his eyes for a moment, breathes deep, can actually smell Leo and feel the heat of his body close, but Javier – he can’t – he – 

He gets up so quickly that his vision blackens for the fraction of a second. “I have to call my wife.” 

Leo’s expression doesn’t falter, but his steps suddenly seem heavier as he leaves the room.

 

 

A few weeks later, both Inter and Barcelona crash out of the Champions League. It’s the only trophy that continues to stay out of reach and Javier is starting to believe that by now, he’d do anything to get his hands on it. He tells Leo as much the night that Barça loses out to Liverpool and Inter to Valencia. 

“ _Even sell your soul?”_ Leo jokes but his voice doesn’t sound like he’s smiling. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Javier replies lightly, thinking _I would._

But maybe he’s being ungrateful. He’s won many titles with Inter already and is very fortunate to be able to contribute to a winning streak that lasts 17 matches, a new record in the _calcio._ He knows by April that the title is theirs and it lessens the pain of yet another Champions League exit. The Coppa Italia is still left to play for, so Javier concludes that it has already been a very successful season.

 

Javier has played professional football for many years. He thinks he has seen everything by now. Then Leo scores _that_ goal. It sends goosebumps all over his body.

 

  

Leo calls him after Roma thrashes Inter in the Coppa final. Javier finds it almost strange that Leo always finds the right thing to say, something that will sober him up after a loss when Javier never has a clue what will make Leo act like a normal human being again. They don’t talk about their respective clubs for very long though, or football in general – surprisingly, because the Copa America is on the horizon and it will be their first tournament together. Instead, Leo tells him about Rosario and his family and while he might be very precise on the pitch, he’d dropped and broken three glasses within the past week. In return, Javier talks about growing up in Dock Sud, about the narrow pathways of Brera in Milan and that he’d once broken a toe by running against his living room table.

 

 

On their last day at practice, Mancini takes him to the side, sneaks an arm across his shoulder and leans close like he always does when he doesn’t want anyone to listen. 

“ _Cucho_ tells me you’re close to Messi.” 

It’s not even a question. Javier makes a mental note to push Esteban off a cliff. “I wouldn’t say close,” he says. “We talk occasionally.” 

“And I’m sure you’ll have many chances to talk during the Copa,” Mancini continues unfazed and Javier already knows where this is heading. “I’m sure you already know what I’m asking. What the club is asking,” he says. “Moratti wants him. He’d link up well with you and _Cucho_.” 

He swallows down the comment that Moratti has just bought Ibrahimovic and Hernán and nods, full well knowing that no paycheck is going to lure Leo away from Barcelona.

 

 

Venezuela is like a greenhouse – wet and humid. It’s not very warm, but the air is so full of evaporated water that it sticks to the walls of Javier’s throat, making it difficult to breathe. A constant film of sweat graces his skin and he is tempted to get rid of his jacket, but the occasional gusts of wind are cold and Javier can’t afford to get sick, not now. 

He arrives in Maracaibo with Hernán, Esteban and Nicolás. Most of the squad is already assembled in the common room of their team hotel, with only the few guys from Spain still missing. It’s the usual atmosphere, a positive sort of anxiety and excitement that hangs over them like a cloud, all believing the same, solitary thing: that this is their time. Esteban says it’s because of their returning legends, of Román and him, but Javier refuses to be called a legend. 

When Leo enters shortly after, trailing Fernando, Diego and Pablo, keeping in Gabi’s shadow, Javier thinks he looks happy, in a good mood, in a better mood than he would’ve expected him to be after that frustrating end to Barcelona’s season. He’s still the youngest member of the squad, _el benjamín,_ not yet twenty. The team is already secretly planning a birthday party just days before kick-off. 

More greetings are exchanged and Javier manages to pull Leo into a brief hug. 

“You need a haircut,” he tells him and Leo laughs softly as he moves away, brown strands now reaching well over his shoulders. 

“Not until we’ve won a trophy.” 

Javier ruffles Leo’s hair in response – he’s not sure why he does it, he hates it when people do that to him – and it tickles his skin. “Then we better win this one, because this is a state.”

  

 

It’s great to see everyone again, but Javier is also relieved when he shuts the door to his room behind him and breathes in nothing but well-tempered air and silence. There are still a few faint voices echoing down the corridor, but the walls drown out every other sound, giving Javier some time to rearrange his mind. 

He doesn’t feel nervous about playing a tournament with Argentina. He doesn’t get nervous about playing football, about facing tough opponents. Having been handed the vice-captaincy, he has to lead by example and that includes more than just on the pitch. 

Javier needs to stay focused and as Esteban said a year ago, he can’t get caught up in anything that would prove a distraction. There is too much at stake. 

Not just for either on them.

  

 

Leo has other ideas. 

 

 

A couple of days later, Leo turns twenty. They’ve been training rigorously and everybody is exhausted, but they get together in the evening to celebrate and present Leo with a jersey signed by the entire team and staff. They eat cake for dinner, have a drink and a laugh or two, but Basile urges them to go to sleep only shortly after. 

Javier calls Paula who lets him hear Sol’s muttering, making his heart ache and he tells her goodnight, tells her that _papá_ is going to come home with a medal even though she can’t understand any of that yet. 

Rain sets in just as he leaves the bathroom in a pair of old Inter shorts, creating a steady drum and he opens a window to his balcony, breathes. He stills for a moment and empties his head and when there’s a knock sounding from the door, Javier can’t say if one minute has passed or one hour. 

“Can I come in?” 

Javier feels trapped in a déjà-vu, Leo looking at him with an almost serene expression, dark eyes and lips twitching and he moves aside automatically, like he doesn’t have a choice – and maybe Javier doesn’t, not anymore at least. Watching Leo walk across the impeccably tidy room, in clothes he almost drowns in, Javier grabs a shirt and pulls it over his head. When he resurfaces, Leo has opened the balcony doors, allowing the swoosh of tropical rain to flood the room. The smell is almost intoxicating. 

He copies Leo and sits down cross-legged, just on the tiles that are slowly being sprinkled. Leo doesn’t look at him, just pulls his sleeves over his hands and knots them tight. 

“Okay,” Javier says after a few silent beats pass between them. “Are you going to tell me what’s been bothering you?” 

Leo stills and looks straight at him with consuming eyes and that expression that makes him believe that Leo isn’t paying attention to anyone but him. “How do you do it?” 

“How do I do what?” 

“All of this, all the time,” Leo elaborates, letting his shoulders slump, showing for the first time in a week how much is weighing him down. “I’m just really tired at the moment. Things don’t feel right.” 

“And by _things_ you mean…?” Javier trails off and watches as Leo fidgets, then sighs heavily. 

“Everything. Nothing. I can’t really tell. Barça, it’s just – not right. And I think the others feel it too, at least some. Xavi says we need change, but –” Suddenly, he freezes again, glancing at Javier through his lashes. “I just don’t know.” 

If Mancini could see him now, Javier muses and sighs inwardly, guessing that this would be his chance, Leo feeling unsure about the club’s situation, after the Champions League exit, after losing out to Madrid on head-to-head count. But they are in Argentina now, and they are first and foremost part of the Albiceleste and what Javier needs to think about, what he _wants_ to think about, is Leo. 

“I’ve been playing for Inter for twelve years. And we’ve had droughts. Every team has them. Change is needed, but who knows what change is necessary. It can be down to details. But you’ll get through eventually. It’s only natural. After a low, a high usually follows. And who knows,” he says, smiles, catching Leo’s gaze and locking their eyes. “Yours might be just around the corner.”

 

 

Two years later, Javier would see his prediction affirmed by nothing other than the crest on Leo’s jersey.

  

 

“You know,” Leo says as he flops down next to Javier at breakfast, just one day away from their first match. Esteban and Gabriel raise their eyebrows, but stay quiet. “If you’re right about highs and lows, then we better win this tournament, because it’s been an awful long time.” 

Esteban’s laughter penetrates his ears before Javier can reply. “It has been bloody long,” the midfielder comments. “And you can be sure, _pulga._ We _will_ win this.”

  

 

They win their first match. Then the second, and after that the third, finishing at the top of their group. The team is tired, but in high spirits and Javier is grateful for every second on the pitch, for any stability he can give, happy to be back, to contribute. He’s hanging back with Esteban one afternoon after practice, completely soaked by rain, quarter-finals just two days away, when he remembers. 

“What did you tell Mancini?” 

Esteban wipes some droplets off his face. “What?” 

“End of season,” Javier explains. “Luring Leo to Inter. What did you tell him?” 

Realisation dawns on his face. “I didn’t tell him anything,” Esteban answers. “He asked me if I knew Leo well and I just said that you probably know him better.” He furrows his brows. “Why are you asking, _Pupi?_ ” Esteban’s eyes scan his face for an instant and Javier feels a lump rise in his throat. “ _Is_ there anything to tell?” 

Unintentionally, Javier freezes in his step. Esteban moves a bit farther, then looks over his shoulder, studying his face and Javier – he is suddenly overcome by a ruckus of flashbacks. Of phone calls and lengthy conversations, of hidden smiles, briefly shared. Of Leo sitting in his hotel room, out on the balcony in clothes that are too big, looking at him, looking straight into him. He swallows hard. 

“No,” he struggles to say, trying to ignore the way Esteban’s eyebrow curves, knowing full well that he doesn’t quite buy it. “There’s nothing.” 

It’s the first time in his life that Javier believes he might not be telling the truth.

 

 

Javier has played in three Copas before. Each time, Brazil had marked the end of the road. This year is no exception.

 

 

He’s getting good at it, Javier thinks, at picking up the pieces. But there are too many figurative shards lying around in the dressing room after the final and he can’t collect them and piece them back together. Roberto, as captain, gives a small speech once Basile has left the room, but not a single word really sinks in and Javier doubts that even Roberto believes in what he just said. 

Some quickly hurry to the showers, eager to get away. Carlos kicks an empty bottle across the dressing room that ricochets off a bench with a loud clank. The noise in the otherwise deadly silent room makes Javier flinch inwardly. He gets up from the bench with a sigh, grabs a towel and tries to keep his eyes down as he makes his way to the showers too; not being able to continuously look at his colleagues’ crumbled spirits. 

Everything is numb routine, switching off, zoning out. The hot water adds its calming effect and not soon later, Javier feels light-headed and detached. With automatic movement he dries up, gets dressed and finds himself on the bus, next to Esteban, without remembering taking a single step. He only snaps out of it when Basile turns to face the team, asks if anyone’s missing, and Masche answers that Leo might still be inside. Javier gets up before anyone else and says that he will get him, leaving the bus with Esteban’s burning gaze against his back. 

The corridor and dressing room are dark, but there is a cruel echo of Brazilian celebration reaching his ears. Faint light as well as a soft drizzle are coming from the showers and Javier steadies his steps as to not slip on the wet tiles. At first glance, the room seems empty and just full of steam, tropical like the Venezuelan pitches. 

Then he sees Leo. Hunched over on the floor, water raining down on his trembling frame, his head is resting on his arms; propped up on his knees, wet strands of hair drawing an abstract pattern on his pale skin. Javier’s heart clenches in a way he’s not familiar with and for the fracture of a second, he wants to turn around and bolt out of the room. But while that thought is still processing in his mind, his feet have already taken first cautious steps forward. 

Leo doesn’t notice him, or doesn’t care, not moving an inch even as Javier is right next to him, reaching out to turn off the continuous platter of the shower. His right arm gets under the spray before it stops, drenching it completely, making his sleeve heavy with wetness. He crouches down, knees still strained from the match, subtly aching – hesitates. 

Then Javier realizes that the step he wasn’t willing to take is already far behind him; that there is no way for him to go back and make another decision. Maybe it hadn’t been his decision after all. Maybe it would have happened either way. 

“Leo.” His voice echoes through the deserted room. “Come on.” When Leo still doesn’t move, Javier reaches out. His hands are softly shaking as they brush Leo’s skin and he frames his face, tilts his head so that he finally looks up at him. 

In retrospect, Javier would pinpoint this moment as _it._ Leo’s eyes are piercing into his and something in his head snaps like the last string holding up his scarce resistance.

He falls forward and drowns; drowns in released want and need and _Leo_ who has come back to life, whose hands have suddenly found Javier’s shirt, pulling him closer whilst somehow scrambling up to his knees. Still keeping a firm hold of Leo’s face, Javier moulds their lips together with more force than intended, so much that he expects Leo to pull away – hoping that he will.

But Leo only pushes closer, so close that their upper bodies are entirely flush and Javier can feel the wetness of Leo’s skin seeping through his shirt, not doing anything to cool the churning fire that has sparked in his belly, eating its way through his insides. And then there is a hand, cold and only slightly rough, trembling like his own, finding bare skin just above the waistband of his trousers, with the sole intention to slide lower, to slide beneath. 

Javier grabs and stills it before they get entirely consumed and he feels so breathless that he only finds his voice after a few attempts. Leo is still breathing heavily against his lips, cheeks flushed. 

“The bus is waiting.” He swallows thickly. “We need – we need to get going.” 

Leo doesn’t reply, only remains close and for another moment, they breathe each other’s air before Javier retains control over his legs and rises like he hasn’t walked for weeks. He pulls Leo up, pulls him out of the showers and waits for him to get dressed, all the while watching him, unable to turn his gaze, internally shaking to an extent that Javier is convinced must be visible on the outside as well. 

They make their way to the bus as quickly as possible and Javier can tell that Esteban is eyeing him, his wet shirt, and Leo who slides into the seat next to Gabi who immediately puts an arm around him. But Javier only stoically focuses his eyes on his hands, white and ghostlike and imperceptibly trembling.

 

  

Javier only has to wait a short while until there’s a soft knock on the door. His reason has long said goodbye to him when he opens it to allow Leo to enter, locking it behind them before turning to face him. A silent, tense beat passes. A switch is flicked. 

Leo grabs a handful of his shirt and yanks him down too capture his mouth. Javier finds his neck, tilts his head and his fingers get tangled in long strands of hair, so soft and his mind is reeling. Hands roam his chest and brush his skin where his shirt has ridden up and Leo doesn’t give him the chance to properly realize what they’re even doing – what Leo is doing to him. 

Perhaps it should worry him, this implicitness with which everything follows. How casually he pulls his shirt over his head and how natural it feels to repeat the same movement with Leo’s, how he doesn’t hesitate to push Leo into the mattress and how Leo instantly reaches up to pull him down. 

There’s a moment – Leo’s nails have already dragged red lines across his back, his legs are firmly encircling Javier’s waist and he is hot and tight around him – when Javier stills and looks at Leo, really looks at him, skin glistening with sweat and body trembling with want, flat chest and taut muscles; and briefly, Javier forgets how to breathe. But then Leo touches his face, kisses him so softly that it’s barely there, and fills his lung with air.

 

 

Javier wakes up to reality. To the subtle bitterness in his gut telling him that something’s gone terrible wrong. He feels Leo before he can see him, still closely pressed to his bare form and he sits up with a start, without glancing sideways, because – 

The sudden movement wakes Leo and immediately, Javier can hear the sheets that have just slid off his body rustle behind him, can hear the sound of Leo sitting up and the heat still radiating off of him. Tentative fingers trail up his spine, resuscitating everything he’d felt the night before and Javier can’t –

He rapidly rises to his feet, head spinning and conscience screaming, rubbing his face as if it could make all the vivid memories and imagery disappear. 

“You –,” he manages to squeeze out eventually. “You should go.” 

Leo stays silent, but from repetitive stirring Javier figures that he is – hopefully – getting dressed. Still, he doesn’t dare to turn around until he is absolutely certain, until he feels Leo step up to him once again. And had Javier been absolutely certain to let him know that this was a mistake on both sides, as he gazes upon Leo’s small frame, apparently composed, looking so – he just can’t say it, can’t even bring himself to think it. 

Leo just smiles as he stretches up, kissing him briefly but nonetheless fiercely. “See you, Javi.”

  

 

Going home to Milan and acting as if –- it’s the hardest thing Javier has ever done. 

 

 

Things at Inter don’t change much. At least they never change for Javier and it’s the only constant keeping his mind fairly at peace. 

On some days, he’s able to keep his focus better than on others. Practice or a match will tire him out so much that he doesn’t forget – never forgets – but indecent thoughts will retreat to the back of his mind and give him rest. 

On other days, visions of Leo and him and them together will come crushing over him like unforgiving waves, overtake his mind and unsettle him so much that he can’t look anyone in the eye, fearing that they’d see what images are flashing there. 

It honestly surprises him that it takes Esteban until October to confront him. 

“You’ve been acting strange lately,” he tells Javier one day as they’re leaving the training facilities. 

Javier guesses that strange might still be a kind word considering. “Have I?” It’s a rather poor attempt to quieten Esteban’s interest and he is perfectly aware of that. 

“You have,” Esteban deadpans. “And I’m not an idiot.” 

“I’m not saying you are.” 

“Then why aren’t you talking to me?” His friend raises his eyebrows at him. “I just want to assume that you do trust me. And don’t think that I don’t have a fair idea what’s going on. I would just rather hear it from you.” 

Javier feels a lump in his throat. “I already told you, _Cuchu._ There’s nothing.”

 

 

There is nothing, or at least that’s what Javier is able to tell himself for the first couple of weeks. There is Sol, most of all, of course and he’s been with Paula for so long that they have established a hard-to-break routine. She knows him well, but he still hopes she is crediting his somewhat changed behaviour to the loss at the Copa. 

Javier thinks he is slowly getting over it by October, whatever it is or was.

 

 

On the 17th of November 2007, Javier becomes the most capped player for Argentina. He avoids Leo the entire time, fully aware that he’s not getting over anything.

  

 

He is unsuspecting when his phone rings just as he returns home after a light training session. There’s a note in the kitchen saying that Paula has taken Sol to visit a girlfriend in town and Javier can’t help but smile, because she always leaves notes, never calls, never texts. The smile is wiped off his face pretty quickly. 

_“Hey.”_ Leo’s voice is as quiet as always, but Javier can barely comprehend the effect it has on him. 

“Hey,” he replies, drops his bag on the floor, and heads towards the terrace. It’s still quite warm for October, but the tiles beneath his feet are icy.

“ _How was Moscow?”_  

It surprises him, that Leo goes straight back to normal, but it’s good, it feels normal, and Javier has to laugh. “Cold,” he answers. “How was Scotland?” 

_“Not very warm either,”_ Leo says and Javier can hear that he’s smiling too. _“Did you watch?”_ His tone is mildly curious, vaguely expectant. 

“Only the highlights. You did well. The Rangers are a tough team.” 

_“I didn’t score,”_ Leo says and Javier knows that to him, it’s all that matters; that he feels like he could have and should have done better. 

“It’s only the group stage. And the return leg will go in your favour.” 

Leo hums, leaving it open to interpretation whether he agrees with him or not and then silence settles over them, not uncomfortable, as Javier would have suspected, given their circumstances, given that the last time they were together they – he stops himself there. He can feel his fingertips tingling, already. 

_“I miss you,”_ Leo says out of the blue, voice low in his throat, slightly mumbled, swallowing half his consonants. 

Javier breathes deep, thinks for an instant that he can still resist, but then he finds himself relax and give in to the yearning pulling at his spine. The memory is just too alive, like it’s feeding off his resistance bit by bit and he can see Leo in front of him, beneath him, _around him._  

He digs his nails into his forearms to pull himself back down to earth. There is no point in denying it. “I miss you, too.”

 

 

The phone calls take place regularly again, like they did before the Copa and before – and this time, Javier knows he’s consciously not telling anyone. He is a calm man, composed and disciplined; thirty-four years old, a husband and a father. But this, this _thing_ he refuses to name, secretly and silently freaks him out.

 

  

It’s the last training session of the year and the pitch is almost frozen because the temperatures have dropped so low. Nevertheless, Javier takes a ball and sits in between drills, letting his eyes wander over the field and his team and he feels happy and proud, just incredibly proud because they haven’t been beaten once so far. Hernán and Ibra are battling for the ball somewhere up the stone-hard pitch and it looks ridiculous, because Hernán is even taller than Javier, but next to Ibra, he still looks like a dwarf; everyone does. 

As usual, the peace doesn’t last very long and he is quickly joined by Esteban and Júlio. The latter throws his gloves at him, but misses quite a considerable amount of inches. Javier bites back a comment about how a goalkeeper should be able to hit him from a yard away, because Júlio had stopped all their attempts in the Copa final. As much as he’s gotten over the loss, he doesn’t need it to be rubbed in his face. 

“Whom are you betting on?” Esteban asks eventually and Javier raises his eyebrows at him.

“For what?” 

“World player of the year.” 

Júlio speaks up before Javier has time to think. “He’s not going to win, _Cuchu_. It’ll be Kaká or Ronaldo.” 

“I say it’s between Ronaldo and Messi,” Esteban replies. Júlio snorts. “You agree with me, right _Pupi_?” 

Javier shrugs, looks back to where Hernán and Ibra are know full on wrestling for the ball. He thinks Hernán should just give up; Ibra got him in a headlock. “Ronaldo is going to win it.” 

He doesn’t see Esteban’s expression, but he’s probably surprised him by saying that. Júlio just snorts out a laugh. “Told you he wouldn’t agree with you. Ronaldo will be up there for a while and Kaká too.” 

“No doubt about that,” Javier agrees. “But give him a few more months and Messi will have caught up. And I don’t think there’s anyone in line to overtake him. He won’t win it this year, but he will win it eventually.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Júlio groans and scrambles back to his feet. “Smug Argentines… probably already planning to take over the world,” he mutters, picks up his gloves. 

Esteban catches his ankle and makes him tumble forward and a second later the entire squad erupts in laughter. Júlio half-heartedly kicks back at Esteban, red-faced, letting out a Portuguese curse and already plotting his revenge when Mancini barks out an order. 

“Cambiasso! Zanetti! Do your laps.” 

“Old slave-driver,” Esteban mutters under his breath as they start jogging around the pitch. Once they’re as far away from the rest of the squad as the training ground allows, he adds in a lowered voice, “Did you say the same to Leo?” 

Javier keeps his head down as he runs. “I didn’t need to.”

 

 

Ronaldo does win the trophy and Leo comes in second. What strikes Javier most though, beneath all this shimmer and shine of the ceremony, is how great these two are, and yet how extraordinarily different. He thinks about calling Leo, congratulating on coming second, but then he almost has to laugh at himself and concludes that he might as well save the time and congratulate Leo once he wins the damn thing next year.

 

 

_“You should score more,”_ Leo tells him in February. Javier has snatched the late equaliser against Roma. 

“Easier said than done, being a defender,” Javier answers. “How about we both score in the second leg, so that both our clubs progress?” 

Leo laughs. _“Deal.”_

But Javier doesn’t score against Liverpool and Leo doesn’t score against Celtic. Nevertheless, Barcelona progresses and Inter doesn’t. 

“Maybe you’ve got the Champions League curse,” Esteban suggests ahead of their match against Palermo. 

Javier adjusts his shinpads without looking up. “That’s not even funny, _Cuchu._ ” He doesn’t say that he’s starting to believe that, too. And that he’s got a faint idea why. 

Just three years later, Esteban would say the same thing about Ibrahimovic, but Javier doesn’t know that yet. 

When he gets home late after the match, he’s got a new voicemail message. It’s from Leo. 

_“It’s a muscle tear,”_ sounds the voice from his phone, monotonous and hollow. _“Again and I – fuck, they say more than a month, maybe even two. I –”_ A few beats pass where Javier can hear nothing but Leo’s uneven and strained breathing. His chest clenches. _“I don’t know what to do and… I just want to see you. The club wants me to take a few days off and – and I can come to Milan. I just really –“_

Javier really needs to see him too.

  

 

All that Javier can assess for now, as he sits in his car, hands gripping the steering wheel, is that he doesn’t feel like he should; or how he imagined he would. Again, it’s too easy to use _Cuchu_ as an excuse and the words roll off his tongue without hesitation. He feels calm whilst driving and only now, as he pulls into the driveway, does he sense a tingle crawling up his spine. But it’s not unpleasant and it doesn’t carry a bitter aftertaste. 

As he gets out of the car, he glances around. The yard is mostly shielded off by hedges and trees, but Javier can still see the Lago di Como in close distance, a murky grey thanks to rainclouds hovering above. He’s not even driven an hour and it still always seems like an entirely different world from Milan. The house is not on the small side, certainly not, and Leo looks pale, tired and incredibly small standing on its vast porch. 

When Leo catches his glance, a soft smile tugs on his lips, he looks happy to see him – and Javier feels incredibly relieved that he came. 

Javier walks up the stairs and pulls Leo in, hugging him tight. Leo’s face presses into the crook of his neck and just for the fracture of a second, Javier thinks he might be feeling his lips ghosting over the skin just there. Leo’s spine is prominent beneath his fingertips, even through his jumper. 

“You look thin,” Javier says as he releases Leo. He wants to tell him more than that; that he seems drained, exhausted, almost – defeated. But he only brushes a few strands of Leo’s hair back behind his ears. “And you’re still trying to be Ronaldinho.” 

He doesn’t miss how Leo’s expression falters for just a second and wonders if he hit a sore point there; there have been rumours, and Javier is perfectly aware of them. 

Leo just keeps on smiling and lets his fingertips ghost over Javier’s forearm. “Do you want to come in?” he asks the superfluous question and doesn’t wait for an answer. 

Javier trails Leo into the hallway, who walks straight through to the living room, all tastefully furnished, and out into the garden. It’s fairly fresh for this time of year, and it’s still quite early in the morning – which makes Javier wonder if they’re the only people in the house – but Leo sits down on a cushioned wicker chair and pulls his legs in. Javier takes a seat across from him and observes him silently for a few moments. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a lonely football lying on the lawn. 

“I know I shouldn’t,” Leo says suddenly, catching Javier almost off-guard. “I just juggle a bit when nobody’s looking.” 

“You don’t have to justify yourself,” Javier replies.

“Want to play some one on one?” 

Javier gets it, the frustration of not playing, especially if there is no obvious physical pain, if it feels like everything is just fine when it’s not. But he knows that just one single motion can extend the muscle tear and thus Leo’s absence from the pitch. “You should give your legs a break, Leo. Isn’t that what you’re here for?” 

Leo’s eyes flash. “I’m not fragile,” he says firmly and looks Javier straight in the eye and he feels like Leo might not just be referring to football. “I don’t know why everyone keeps thinking I am.” 

And Javier wants to object, wants to say _I don’t think you are_ and _Because you were actually sick and you forced your body to grow._ But then he remembers his thumb fitting right beneath Leo’s collarbone and the soft outline of his sternum and ribs and maybe, subconsciously, he still doesn’t credit Leo with as much strength and resilience as he really possesses.

“And it’s not all I’m here for,” Leo suddenly adds, eyes still clear and focused.

He gets up and Javier notices how he puts more pressure on the left leg as he rises and walks over to him. Leo leans down, but Javier puts his hands on Leo’s shoulders. “But it’s not why I am here,” he says and it’s the truth, because yes, he is aware of that subtle but strong pull just behind his ribcage, but he didn’t come here to – he hasn’t missed Leo just because –

“Thanks,” Leo interrupts his thoughts, thankfully. His breath is warm against Javier’s skin. 

“For what?” 

He feels Leo’s shoulders move up and down again. “For coming and just – listening. Being there. Being you.” 

It takes a few seconds to get through to Javier, to properly sink in and it might be the moment it first dawns on him – that they are here for an entirely different reason.

 

 

It’s a strange sense of peace with which they spend the day and it’s a surprise to Javier, still, how easy it is for them to get along, to find things to talk about because at first glance, they don’t have anything in common besides football. Leo is Argentina and Barcelona’s beacon of light and hope and not a day older than twenty, with all paths of life still spread out in front of him. Javier is fourteen years his senior, he is captain of club and country and he thinks that his life will continue the way it was set out since he joined Inter, since he got married. 

But it still feels as normal as everything else they’ve done all day, almost routine, when Javier eventually, without much thought, takes Leo’s chin and finds his lips.

  

 

_“Are you going to tell me now?”_ Esteban’s voice hits his ears when Javier is on his way back to Milan. The sun is already setting and he is aware that he stayed with Leo for far too long – although that isn’t the only thing he worries about. _“Since I’m now your alibi, you should at least let me know what I’m covering up.”_

Javier sighs, mind heavy with realization. “I don’t know, _Cuchu._ I just – I really don’t know.”

  

Roma remains a thorn in Inter’s side when, after Javier and his team have secured the league, they snatch the Coppa Italia away from them, just like the Super Cup almost a year ago. But Javier doesn’t complain. 

Leo calls. _“Well done on the league,”_ he says with a slightly bitter undertone. Barcelona had only finished third. _“I’ll congratulate you properly when I see you in Mexico.”_  

It makes Javier’s breath hitch and heart stutter.

 

 

“Oh Captain, my Captain!”

Diego’s smile is almost splitting his face, bright as the burning Mexican sun in San Diego. He’s standing next to his brother and Masche, as well as two new faces, Higuaín and Di María. Javier shakes his head with a smile and heads over to greet them, then he makes a round to greet everyone else, welcome the newbies, as is his duty as captain, now that Roberto has retired. He gets to Leo and Kun last, glued together like the last time and he shakes Kun’s hand, draws Leo into a quick hug. 

“How’s the leg?” 

“Better than before,” Leo answers and winks. “You’ll see.” 

And Javier does see at practice later that day, how Leo skips past everyone even quicker than before and how his pace seems to have increased significantly. “Whatever it is they’re feeding him in Barcelona,” Esteban tells him, wiping sweat off his brow, “I want some of that too,” and they watch Leo and Kun chase each other across the pitch, Leo always a step ahead and Javier thinks that maybe they’re getting old after all. 

Later that evening, after dinner, after some pointless card games in the hotel lobby – pointless, because Maxi always cheats and Diego always wins – there’s that same soft knock on his door that has pulled Javier out of his thought at the last call-ups.

Leo’s face is tanned and relaxed and a world away from the pale and tired boy from Lago di Como. It’s a relief to see that he is better, better than ever, but Javier guesses he will have to get used to that somehow, to Leo progressing and evolving like there’s no tomorrow and a small, selfish part worries that Leo might simultaneously move away from him too. But for now it doesn’t seem like that, as Leo kicks the door shut behind him and uses his entire body to crowd Javier against the wall. He briefly thinks of the thin hotel walls, of practice the next day and their match, but then Leo sneaks a hand into his shorts and Javier loses his focus.

  

 

“So,” Leo’s voice eventually cuts through the silence, still slightly breathless and although Javier has directed his eyes towards the ceiling, he can assume that Leo’s skin is still flushed. The room is as dark as the sky outside his window. “You’re getting Mourinho.” 

Javier isn’t quite sure what to say to that, so he just hums, feels his vocal chords hum against his throat. 

“You know,” Leo eventually continues, probably getting to the point, because he’s not one to beat around the bush. “Barça wanted him too.” 

That makes Javier turn his head. He is surprised to find Leo’s eyes already on him. “Why didn’t they get him?” 

Leo shrugs, then smiles. “Because he wasn’t right. Or at least that’s what Xavi says.” 

Javier raises his eyebrows. “And how does Xavi know that?” 

“Because Xavi knows everything,” Leo says and Javier has no doubt that he means it. “He’s going to win the Euros this summer.” 

“He alone?” 

“No,” Leo laughs. “But you know what I mean. You’ve seen him play. There’s no one better than him.” 

There really isn’t, at least not in his position, but Javier is just glad that Leo can say that just like this, like he is a young boy admiring his idol, like he weren’t already considered the best player in the world by many. 

“There’s no one better than you, either,” and that really catches him off guard and before he can laugh it off, because honestly, Javier knows he’s good, just not _that_ good, Leo has moved closer and is now hovering above him. He feels breathless for more than one reason. “Sometimes,” Leo continues, “I don’t think you realise how great you are. How much you mean to this team. To me.” 

He rests their foreheads together and lets air fill his lungs and Javier closes his eyes, relishes the feeling of skin on skin, but not just that – of Leo’s skin against his and he wants to reply, wants to tell Leo that he doesn’t realize, doesn’t understand how much he means to Javier either. That he’s already drawing comparisons where he shouldn’t.

But maybe Javier doesn’t need to say that, because Leo can read him better than vice versa anyway. 

And that’s how they fall asleep.

  

 

They win against Mexico, resoundingly. Leo scores and orchestrates Kun’s goals and Javier is the first to congratulate them. He feels excited for witnessing the start of a bright future for Argentina and selfishly sad, because he knows he won’t be a part of it. And the way Leo smiles at him, exhausted but happy and utterly proud, Javier is not sure if Leo realizes that.

 

Summer comes and goes quickly and for once, Javier is grateful. Mourinho’s preseason training is more exhausting than anyone dared to imagine, but it stops Javier from letting his mind drift.

 

_“They won’t let me go.”_

Javier instantly knows what Leo is talking about, of course he knows. They’ve got a tight-knitted web across Europe and somebody usually knows what’s going on. In this case, Gabi had leaked Leo’s outburst in training to his brother Diego, who had then told Hernán, who had eventually unveiled the entire drama to the Argentines at Inter. The Olympics. 

Leo continues before Javier can reply. _“They just don’t get it, do they? I need to go to Beijing, Javi. I just need to and they don’t understand. I’m not the only one who scores goals!”_

Javier guesses he has probably gone through every emotion with Leo, but he has never heard him this angry. He can almost see Leo running holes into the ground. “They’re probably worried about injuries, your health,” he tries to reason, full well knowing it’s not going to sink in anyway. “You know it will be boiling in China this time of year.” 

_“I don’t care,”_ Leo answers. Javier didn’t think he would. _“Other athletes do it too. Kun is going, Eze, Fernando.”_

“Have you talked to Guardiola?” 

_“Why? He is going to say just the same and I –”_

“Leo,” Javier makes him stop in mid-sentence. “I know that he’s the new coach and that you don’t know him well, but it can’t hurt. He’s a former player, he played in the Olympics – I’m sure he’ll understand what it means to you. Keep your head down, work hard, and it’ll work out.” 

It does work out. Leo gets his first senior gold for Argentina. It won’t be the last, Javier is sure of that too.

_“Kun is going to chop it right off.”_ Leo sounds drunk on happiness and most likely other things as well. _“Thought you might want to know.”_

“Thank God,” Javier retorts. “I don’t think I could’ve waited until you won the league this season.”

Javier doesn’t think that the haircut has suddenly turned Leo into a grown-up – but it certainly underlines how much has changed; how much will change from now on. Leo returns to Barcelona and the impact is instant, almost overwhelmingly so. In December, Leo scores the second goal in a victory against Madrid. The tides are turning, Javier thinks, and he cannot take his eyes off Leo smiling on the TV screen. 

They talk almost daily now, unless away matches or clashing practice sessions deny them and Javier is sure that it’s only a matter of time until people start to catch on. He is not good at hiding things, nor does he particularly want to, but in this case, there is no other option for him. He wonders about Leo, if he’s told anyone or if people in Barcelona know like Esteban and Nicolás; not fully aware but suspecting. 

Javier feels like there isn’t a day that goes by without _Cuchu_ catching up to him while he runs his laps, trying to tickle something out of him, but whenever Javier is about to give in, he forces himself to increase his speed and _Cuchu_ is never able to catch up again. He figures he won’t be able to avoid it forever, but Javier is content with pushing the matter away into the future as far as possible.

  

 

“This is a joke, isn’t it?” 

Esteban rolls his eyes. “Why are you asking me? You know full well what I am thinking.” 

Javier feels like pulling his hair out. “As a player, I hold him in the highest honour. There is no doubt about his legacy. But coaching? I’m sorry, but –” 

“I know,” Esteban cuts him off. “Hasn’t exactly made a name for himself with that.” 

They both know that it’s a desperate attempt to unite the team, unite the nation and install hope that hasn’t been around the _Albiceleste_ for a while; to inject them with some luck. But they don’t need luck. They need a coach – not a legend.

 

 

Things go well for Inter until they crash out of the Champions League once again, against Manchester United and Javier is starting to believe that he really is cursed. He is still adapting to his knew role in midfield, because Mourinho prefers Maicon, Walter, Chivu and Materazzi at the back, but he digs his heels in like every season and pulls the team with him. They can still win the league and the Coppa Italia and it should be a consolation, but it’s like a thorn in his side, this one trophy that stays out of his reach. 

_“I haven’t won one either,”_ Leo says when Javier tells him exactly that. He’s not sure why Leo is the only person he will admit this to – but maybe he does. 

“You won it two years ago.”

_“That doesn’t count. I didn’t play, I didn’t score, so until that happens, consider the two of us to without a Champions League trophy.”_

“If you say so,” Javier says. “But do allow me to silently disagree with you on that matter.” 

They talk a bit more about their new coaches’ respective training methods, about some film that Piqué made Leo watch and what Javier should get Walter for his upcoming birthday. Leo never asks about his family and Javier is glad he doesn’t, because he wouldn’t know how to answer.

 

 

Eventually though, they can’t avoid it any longer than they already have. Truth be told, Javier had expected it to leak through to Leo much sooner. 

_“Congratulations,”_ Leo says quietly into the phone. 

For the first time in days, he doesn’t feel like smiling. He should have told Leo, somehow, because – “Thank you.” 

_“What’s his name?”_

Javier swallows. “Ignacio,” he answers, feels like he has to go on. “Listen, Leo –” 

_“I’m happy for you,”_ Leo cuts him off. _“I really am, Javi.”_

And he sounds genuine. He sounds genuine and honest – unless he’d taken Javier’s advice and become a better liar.

 

 

Sometimes Javier wishes to be more of an optimist; to just have more faith in things that seem impossible instead of being realistic and filling his head with facts. But fact is that Maradona isn’t prepared technically, tactically, to face Bolivia. He underestimates the opponents, believes with all his might that Argentina is going to win regardless – and it goes so horribly wrong. It’s one of the worst losses in his career. And it’s embarrassing. 

For Leo, Javier is sure, it’s even worse. 

For a while it seems like he’s dealing with it, but Javier nevertheless hovers close, watches Leo’s stony face and empty expression, like he’s waiting for him to snap. He sees Masche and Gabi and Kun do the same, although he thinks Kun isn’t in a very good state himself. Maradona comes into the dressing room eventually, when everyone is packed and ready to leave, but Javier can’t listen to a single word he says, because as much respect he has for him as a player, he cannot bring himself to feel the same sense of gratitude for him as a coach. 

“This is just a slip-up,” Maradona – or Diego, as he always insists – tells them. “We need to have faith and show them who we really are.” 

Javier has to swallow down his comments, although he so badly wants to say _It’s not all about faith_ and _We’re bottom of the group_ and _You let them run into an open knife._ But he bites down on his lips until he tastes blood and walks to the bus with a stoic face, because things can’t blow up like this and he is determined to somehow hold this team together. 

It surprises him slightly when Leo sinks down in the seat next to him, leans his head against Javier’s shoulder, but he doesn’t hesitate to pull him close, doesn’t object when Leo buries his face in the crook of his neck and what he assumes are tears begin to tickle his skin. 

They arrive at the hotel in silence and Leo follows him to his room. Javier ignores the looks, can’t bring himself to care and once the door shuts behind them, he pushes Leo onto the bed and undresses him, covers every inch of his body with his lips, because it’s what Leo wants and it’s all that Javier can give to him. 

Sometimes Javier wonders if Leo is the only sign of an idiosyncratic midlife crisis.

 

  

A day after Barcelona and Chelsea’s battle at Stamford bridge – Javier has to admit that not many games had had him on his toes like this -, when it’s already quite clear that the league will be Inter’s for another year, Mourinho walks with him during practice. Javier hasn’t figured him out yet, doubts that anyone really has, but he has worked with so many different coaches in his career and if there’s one thing that Javier is good at; it’s adapting. 

“We will win the treble next year,” Mourinho says. “We’ve had our season of adjustment, next year, Barcelona can hand the trophy over to us.” 

Javier raises his eyebrows at his coach. “They haven’t won it yet.” 

Mourinho smiles, it looks almost mischievous, as if he knows something that Javier doesn’t. Which is most likely true. There are many things in Mourinho’s head that Javier would never understand. “Not yet, but they will. Ferguson is a great coach, but he doesn’t have the tools to beat Guardiola.” 

“And we do?” 

Mourinho stops, puts a hand on his shoulder and looks at him like he’s got the next year planned out already. Knowing Mourinho like he does, Javier figures he probably has. “We do, Capitano. There’s just one piece missing. What do you think of Sneijder and Milito?” 

“They’re both great players. I know Diego well,” Javier answers truthfully. “But if you’ve already made up your mind, my opinion is hardly going to matter, is it?” 

“No,” Mourinho admits. “But I do value your opinion. I know you don’t underestimate me, and let me assure you, I don’t underestimate your value for this team either.”

 Javier thinks there might be a compliment hidden in there, but with Mourinho, he can never tell. 

 

 

“I can’t believe it,” Esteban says and is still shaking his head, even one hour after the full-time whistle. “He is a yard tall, and scores the winner with his head.”

Javier just smiles and when Esteban asks if he’s going to call, he simply shakes his head. He doesn’t think that Leo is going to be anywhere near his phone for the next few days. And he doesn’t mind. Leo deserves this.

 

 

Something draws them to Buenos Aires that summer. Usually, because it’s not summer in Argentina and mostly bitterly cold, they stay in Italy, stay in Europe, but not this time. Nacho is still small and Sol doesn’t like flying, but Javier’s mother wants to see them, Paula’s parents want to see them and although they’ve lived in Milan for so long, Argentina is still home, and it’s always nice to come home. 

The kids gets spoilt rotten by their grandparents and Javier doesn’t look forward to getting them back down to earth, but they don’t see them very often and it’s probably only natural. His own mother still fusses over him when they visit, scolds him for not finishing his plate of food and when he’s helping her in the kitchen, she takes his face into her hands and looks right into his eyes. 

“You seem restless,” she tells him. “Are you really doing alright?” 

Javier had once tried to lie to his mother when he’d been eight years old and stolen some alfajores from the cupboard. He’d broken down halfway through his story and never attempted to fool her again. He doesn’t think he can do it this team. 

Javier sighs. “I’m not sure, mamá.” Something tells him that she understands. 

But before things can get difficult with Paula, he has to join the Albiceleste for qualifiers against Colombia and Ecuador. In their narrow win over Colombia, Javier only plays the second half. When they lose to Ecuador, he’s on the pitch the entire time. It might not be as bad as the match against Bolivia, but the qualification for the World Cup is starting to move into the distance. 

“I want to believe that we can do it with him,” Leo says late at night when they’re in Javier’s room, sheets lying in a heap on the floor, cool air hitting their heated and sweaty skin. “He means so much to this country and I – I just want it to work out. But then I wish that Pep were here, telling me which defender to draw out and where to cut into the box. Or Xavi to pass to when I don’t know what to do. Is that bad?” 

“No,” Javier answer. “It’s perfectly normal.” 

“I’m just so used to them,” Leo continues. “And I know it looks easy, what we do, but it’s not and I can’t just do it here. I want to, Javi, I really do, but I can’t.” 

It’s the inevitable result from dozens, maybe even hundreds of articles questioning Leo’s commitment, his patriotism and passion. Javier knows that the people who write that actually don’t know anything about Leo, or about football for that matter and he’s told Leo to ignore, but it must hurt nonetheless. The media is constantly taunting him, holding Maradona’s achievements over his head and Javier just wants to put them in their place, because Leo – he doesn’t compare to anyone. 

Maybe he is biased because of – whatever they are. He brushes Leo’s hair away from his forehead, now short and in slight disarray and Leo turns his head, rests his chin on Javier’s chest and looks at him with an unreadable expression. 

“Don’t ever listen to them. It takes time and patience to build a national team and you know the Argentines; patience is not they’re strongest suit.” He doesn’t add that it’s not Leo’s strongest suit either, but Leo is still so young. “Just play and I’ll hold the backline for you.” 

It’s the first promise he would eventually break – though not intentionally.

 

 

Before the next season even starts for Javier, Leo and Barcelona bag two more trophies, making it five out of five, making history like no other team before. Javier understands how rare it is for group of players to work together like this, for a coach to understand and use them in the most efficient way. Ibra is a part of them now, swapped for Eto’o in a deal that doesn’t really make sense to Javier, but he doesn’t complain, he just wonders how Ibra is going to fit into Barcelona. Javier knows him and thanks to Leo, he’s got a fairly good idea of how Barcelona works and – he doesn’t want to jinx anything, but he guesses it’s going to be interesting. 

Javier finds it to be massively ironic that Inter and Barcelona are put in the same group for the Champions League, with Rubin Kazan and Dynamo Kyiv and he realizes that he’s never played against Leo except for practice sessions with the Albiceleste. But if those are anything to go by, then Javier can’t say he is particularly looking forward to it. In fact, it makes him increasingly giddy, as if he were sixteen and not thirty-six.

_“I think it’s going to be great,”_ Leo disagrees. Of course, he’s been on a high since winning the UEFA Supercup. “ _I need to test myself against the best, and you are.”_  

“I take that as a compliment,” Javier laughs.

_“It was a compliment. And you better not swap shirts with anyone but me,”_ he adds suggestively. “ _I hear you have nice showers at the San Siro.”_  

Javier’s throat goes dry. “Leo, don’t –” 

“Don’t what?” 

He sighs. “You know what I mean.” 

_“What? I can’t get a reward if I win?”_ Leo replies. 

“How do you know that you are going to win?” 

He can tell that Leo is smiling when he answers. _“A premonition? But in case I’m wrong – wouldn’t you want a reward too?”_  

The conversation is heading into a direction that Javier hadn’t predicted. He can feel heat clawing at his neck and, even worse, circulating in his gut and he bites down on his lip. Running a hand through his hair, he quickly scans the room. He’s the last one in the dressing room and he’s made sure that everybody had left before calling Leo. Not that they had ever had this kind of phone call before, but – maybe he’d been subconsciously waiting for it. 

“What did you have in mind?” 

The way that Leo quietly hums into the phone tells Javier that he’s quite happy with the course of their conversation. “I would let you take me in the showers,” he says and then fabric rustles and that’s all it takes for Javier to fumble for his belt. “I wouldn’t even wait for everybody to leave. I’d want you straight away. With the captain’s armband.” 

His voice hitches towards the end and Javier can see Leo in front of his inner eye, remembers exactly how he looks writhing beneath his hand and he can so well imagine Leo right here in this dressing room, pressed against the white tiles, still tense from the game. He can see him in his own Inter shirt, black and blue on Leo’s pale skin and he’d constantly, secretly wished for Leo to make the switch, but Javier knows it’d be the only time to see him as a _Nerazzurri_ , and that alone almost sends him over the edge. 

Leo keeps talking, hushed voice, husky and breathless, breaking every once in a while and Javier’s head is swimming. There’s a fire in his belly just dying to consume him from the inside, searing flames, incredibly hot. Biting back a moan, Javier closes his eyes and focuses on Leo, just Leo and his voice and the way he smells and tastes and _sounds_ when he thrusts into him, again and again and over again. 

Suddenly a choked “ _Javi”_ rolls off Leo’s tongue and that’s it; Javier comes obscenely fast and so hard that it takes him a few seconds to remember where he is. 

_“Convinced?”_

Javier barely has enough energy to nod.

  

 

When he steps onto the car park after a second shower, Esteban is leaning against his car. Javier stops in mid-step. 

“Get in. We’re going for a drink,” he announces. 

“We’ve got practice tomorrow,” Javier responds but Esteban only shakes his head and opens the door. 

“I mean it, _Pupi._ Have water if you want to, but you’re coming with. I’ll drag you if I have to.” 

Javier figures there’s no point in arguing this time and just a few minutes later, they’re on their way to the outskirts of Milan, to a small place they both know and where they know that they’ll be left alone. 

“You know,” Esteban says eventually, looking at his glass of wine rather than at him, “I had hoped you would talk to me.” 

Javier sticks to water – and to his usual answer. “There’s nothing to talk about.” 

“Oh, come on.” He raises his glance. “We both know that’s not true. And I’m just offering you an opportunity to talk. Just listening, no judging. You know I’m not one to judge – I’m not even in the position to judge.” Esteban pauses and his face changes expression. “I’ve been through a divorce.” 

“I’m not divorcing Paula,” he says harshly. “We’re fine.” 

“Okay,” Esteban replies in a calm voice, raising his hands slightly. “So you’re fine. But then what is it?” He leans forward, resting his underarms on the table. “You’re as aware as I am of how things go, what happens. Baptism of fire, captain’s honours.” 

“I –” 

“Yeah, you weren’t ever keen on that,” Esteban interrupts. “Things change, so –” 

This time, it’s Javier who cuts him off. “It’s not like that,” he says and runs his hands over his face, because it’s not, and it never was and that’s exactly the problem. He can feel _Cuchu_ still looking at him and he puts pressure on his temples, because this is really giving him a headache. 

“Then what is it like?” Esteban is relentless. 

Javier breathes, opens his mouth to answer, but he – can’t. He knows what it’s like, he knows what it is that keeps him tied to Leo, that makes them both return to each other, but a small part of him still lives under the illusion that it’s not real unless he admits to it; which is quite foolish, he knows. 

A silent beat passes between them, and Javier guesses that Esteban gets it and it makes his stomach twist. 

“I told you I wasn’t going to judge you – and I won’t. But I know you and this has shaken to the core, I can tell and it’s woken you up and – it’s actually nice to see.” 

Javier drops his hands and looks at Esteban in exasperation. “Nice?” 

He smiles. “Well, you’re so bloody perfect, _Pupi._ Good for us normal mortals to know that you’ve got at least one flaw.” 

A dry laugh escapes him. “You’re calling Leo a _flaw_?” 

Esteban shrugs. “I’m calling him _your_ flaw. And maybe you’re his. Which is also nice to know.”

 

 

The match against Barcelona at the San Siro ends in a goalless draw. Inter’s strong defence cancels out any attack and in return, Barcelona’s midfield is so intricate that they don’t manage to thread any ball through. It’s frustrating for both teams, but if Javier is being honest, probably more for Barcelona. They shake hands and there’s still all to play for, it’s only the first match in a long Champions League season. 

Leo finds him in the tunnel. “Can you meet me somewhere?” 

“Don’t you have to go back to your hotel?” he returns the question with an equally hushed voice. 

Leo smiles. “I’ve got someone to cover for me.” 

Javier throws a look over his shoulder. Esteban furrows his brows, then rolls his eyes. “I can pick you up in two hours.” 

Leo’s smile widens just slightly, then somebody calls for him. Javier sees Piqué hovering in the door to the visitors’ dressing room. “See you.” Then he’s gone and Javier is already counting the minutes. 

Esteban waits for him and when everyone else is out of earshot, he says, “So, we’re going for a drink, right?” 

It takes him a second to catch on. Then he sighs. “Thanks.”

  

 

Leo is waiting outside a back entrance when Javier gets to the hotel and when he sits down in the passenger seat, Javier is still without clue as to where to take him. Then he decides on the only place where he can be positive that nobody is going to disturb them. 

Inter’s training ground is dark and deserted and Javier grabs a ball as they head out onto the grass. 

Leo’s laugh echoes across the field. “Is this part of your master plan to lure me to Inter?” 

Javier doesn’t answer, just passes the ball to Leo and that’d more like it, he thinks. That feels right and more like them, not playing against each other but together. A soft thump sounds whenever their feet hit the ball and it sets a quiet and calm rhythm, almost matching his pulse. Eventually though, their legs get too tired and so they lie down on the grass that still smells of summer and Leo reaches for his hand. 

“Is it Piqué?” 

Leo turns his head and kisses his knuckles before answering. “Is he what?”

“Your… confidante.” 

“He’s my friend,” Leo says. “I’ve known him for a long time.” 

Javier grasps that there is something else hidden in there, something that Leo is keeping from him, and he can’t help himself. “Just a friend?” 

Leo moves closer and rolls onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. His hair has gotten longer again, not as long as before Beijing, but the strands are long enough to fall in front of his eyes. Javier brushes them aside. 

“Would you be jealous if he weren’t?” 

Maybe it’s the aftereffects of the match that make him speak his mind. “Maybe.” 

Leo leans down and lets their lips touch just momentarily. “You shouldn’t be.” 

That’s not really an answer, and maybe he is not entitled to one anyway.

 

 

When Javier looks at Sol and Nacho, playing and laughing blissfully, he thinks they’re the most perfect things in his life and it makes him wonder why he is doing what he’s doing. But then he has to stop himself – because he knows exactly why.

 

 

Javier doesn’t get called-up for the last qualifying game against Uruguay and it doesn’t surprise him. He is sure that he’s fallen out of favour with Maradona and he can only watch how his team gets the only goal of the match, narrowly snatching a spot in the World Cup. It was too close, Javier thinks, this is not going to be easy.

 

  

The return leg is two months later at the Camp Nou and it’s not a good match, not from Inter’s point of view. Barcelona are outpassing them, almost outclassing them and Javier can’t really believe how they slice their usually wall-like defence open. Javier is aware that he is not having the best game and neither do his teammates. Mourinho will be furious, Javier is sure of that, because they haven’t secured the qualification for the knockout stages like they planned to. 

Leo sneaks into his hotel room later that night – God knows how he manages to get there unseen. They don’t waste a single second on talking about the match that they’re both not happy about – Javier because he’d lost, Leo because he didn’t score – and instead get tangled in too many sheets, taking their time because they never have much of it together.

 

 

“I would congratulate you,” Javier tells Leo’s voice message after he wins the Ballon d’Or in December. “But I think I might wait until you win a few more, to save the time.”

 

 

“It’s scary, isn’t it?” Esteban asks him one day in training. They’d watched Barcelona thrash Sevilla on the weekend. “He’s fucking 22. He’s not even peaking. I’m just bloody glad he’s Argentine. Imagine if he’d chosen to play for Spain.” 

Wesley catches up to them, having eavesdropped on their conversation, but Javier doesn’t mind. This way, Esteban will stay on topic. “Be glad that he hasn’t,” he throws in. “I am too. Because I want to win the World Cup.” 

“How about we win the treble first?” Javier suggests as they’re rounding the last corner. 

“That’s already the plan,” Wesley says. “But the World Cup would be the cherry on top.” 

Esteban barks out a laugh. “You’re delusional, Sneijder. You might get to the finals, but then you’ll lose out to us.” 

“We’ll see about that, _Cuchu,”_ Wesley says and flashes a bright smile. “We’ll see about that.”

  

 

“This is getting boring, Leo. Another trophy? Are you getting greedy?” 

_“Boring, huh? I’m actually quite enjoying myself, thank you very much.”_

“Well, you won’t win it all this season. We’re coming for you.” 

_“In your dreams, Javi. We’re kind of on a roll here.”_

“It’s our time now. Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.” 

It’s all playful banter now, but Javier thinks once it really does happen – something Mourinho is convinced of – it won’t be any fun at all. 

 

Of course it happens. Fate might be having a field day, or maybe Mourinho can – on top of everything else – also predict the future. It wouldn’t surprise Javier. There’s tense excitement in the squad, a firm believe that they can do it, but it’s not all down to them and this is where ‘The Special One’ comes in, Javier believes. This is exactly where his obsession shows, his obsession not only to win the Champions League, but to beat Barcelona, to beat Guardiola and to prove that tactics can triumph over talent. 

“Do you think he ever leaves the training grounds?” Wesley asks him after training, because truth be told, Mourinho had seemed very obsessive those past few days. 

“Sometimes I doubt that he even sleeps,” Javier replies. 

When Mourinho walks up to him the next day as they prepare for the semis, the rings beneath his eyes are almost purple. But his glance is as sharp as ever, maybe even more so. 

“I’ve figured it out,” he tells him as casually as if he’d just finished today’s crossword puzzle. “But for it all to wok out, I need you to mark Messi.” Javier raises his eyebrows at him, but Mourinho is looking firmly ahead. “We’ve got Wesley and _Cuchu_ higher up the pitch, so there will be space between our back four and the offensive midfield. That’s where Messi is strongest. So before he can get the chance to cut into the box and get the better of Maicon, you will cancel him out.” Javier thinks that’s easier said then done, but he doesn’t say it out loud. “If we win at home, then the Camp Nou doesn’t matter.” 

Javier stops. “Why doesn’t it matter?” 

Mourinho digs his hands into his pockets and turns around on his heel. “Because we will barricade our box. They can pass as much as they want, but they won’t get near the goal.” 

Javier stares after him as he walks away to talk to Rui.

 

“Good game,” Javier says and Leo winks at him, looking incredibly tiny next to Ibrahimovic and Javier wants to add _I’m sorry, but I’ll have to be hard on you_ , but he doesn’t, because he thinks Leo would be upset if he were anything but. 

Inter doesn’t get off to the best start possible and Mourinho is shouting from the sideline after five minutes. The passing machine, as Wesley had referred to it, starts quickly and they’re fast, technically brilliant and eventually, after a brilliant cross, Pedro taps the ball past Júlio. It would be easy to panic, to go against the tactic, but Javier knows how to keep his team calm, how to remind them that this doesn’t mean anything and to trust their coach, to trust that they can turn this around. 

For a while, it’s a fight mainly in midfield with both sides pressing high, with Inter seeing far less of the ball as Barcelona, but suddenly, at the half-hour mark, swapping Ibra for Eto’o proves to be a game changer. Samuel charges down the flank, passes to Diego who draws the defenders in and from his position on the field, Javier can see Wesley cutting in and he knows that they’ve got the equaliser in the bag before the Dutchman even touches the ball.

After the goal, it’s easy to stick to their plan, easy to have the confidence to take this team on as they take away all their space and choke up any spark before it can burst into a flame. Leo runs down his side, tries to dribble around and open up gaps, but whenever that happens, Javier interferes. He strips him of the ball, intercepts passes and crosses and by half-time, he can see Leo silently fuming as they go back to the changing rooms. 

The pressure and frustration get to Leo, Javier can tell and it’s understandable, it’s natural, because he’s young, he lacks the patience and experience and he loses the ball in midfield and unintentionally initiates a crucial counter-attack for Inter. Diego latches onto the ball and with enough space and time, he finds Maicon charging forward. Valdes doesn’t stand a change. 

And eventually, Barcelona doesn’t stand a chance. At the hour mark, they have got the game in control. They’ve put a stop to the passing machine. There are more efforts from Leo, the few times he does slip away and Javier can’t catch him, but Júlio saves their necks and Wesley and Diego, who have been outstanding all night, seal their victory. Wesley misleads a header in the box, but _El Principe_ is there to tap it in and make it three. 

When the whistle blows, Javier knows they’ve done something special, that he might have just played the game of his life and the relief is overwhelming, even more so the joy and adrenaline and Júlio almost chokes him when he pulls him into a bone-crushing hug. But despite the win and the happy faces of his teammates, there’s a persistent tug at his heart as he glances across the pitch, searching for Leo. 

He’s already gone and Javier guesses he should find him in the tunnel, see him, and talk to him. But this is Inter’s night and the fans have waited so long for this and he knows there’s the second leg still left to play, but they’ve proven that they’re not only a match for Barcelona, but they can be better. So he stays out on the grass with the team, rounds the pitch and basks in applaud and the chants. 

 

 

_“This isn’t over,”_ Leo says monotonously when Javier reaches him over the phone two days later. _“You haven’t won yet.”_

They haven’t won it yet, Javier is aware of that. And they don’t win the second match at the Camp Nou. They defend deep, disciplined and with Italian patience. When Barcelona score, things get a bit shaky, but they keep it up. Just like Mourinho predicted, the line around the goals stands firmly and although they hardly get a touch of the ball, although on this night, they are not the superior team – Piqué’s goal remains the only official one of the night. Javier knows that they’ve been lucky; he doesn’t think Bojan’s strike was actually offside. 

But football works that way. And they deserve this. It’s the only time that Javier has ever felt this happy after a loss. 

Nevertheless, this time, he needs to find Leo. There will be plenty of time for him to celebrate with his teammates once they get back to Milan, once it sinks in that they have just reached the Champions League final. 

The tunnel is dark and unusually quiet and Javier can hear excited voices coming from the visitors’ dressing room. “Leo,” he calls out once he sees the familiar mop of brown hair and the bright yellow ten on the back of his jersey. Leo stills and slowly turns, face immobile but eyes red. Javier catches up to him. “You played well, _pulga._ I’m sorry, but – you can be proud of yourself.” 

Something remotely like a smile tugs at Leo’s lips, but it’s far from happy – or friendly, for that matter. “Don’t belittle me.” 

Javier is taken aback. “What? Leo, I’m not –” 

His eyes flash. “We should have won,” Leo says. “We got the second goal and you know it.” 

Maybe Javier does, but it doesn’t matter. “The referee ruled it out, Leo. You can’t always win.” 

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child,” Leo snaps back and it stings and hits him straight in the chest and – “We should have gone through.” 

And it makes him angry. “But you didn’t. We’ve worked just as hard, and we deserve it just as much. We were the better team in the first leg and you weren’t good enough today.” He sighs and forces himself to breathe, because he doesn’t want to fight with Leo, not now, not when he just wants – “Life goes on,” he says and takes a step forward, but Leo flinches away from his hand. 

“Don’t touch me,” he grinds out between his teeth and it knocks the air out of Javier’s lung and the blood in his veins to painfully rush. “Don’t you fucking dare to touch me now.” 

Somebody steps in his line of vision before Javier can do or say anything else as Leo storms off, angrier than Javier has ever seen him. He has to fight the urge to just bolt after him and needs a more to refocus his glance. 

“Leave him,” Xavi says, most likely equally frustrated and disappointed, but far better at concealing it and keeping his composure. He looks at Javier intently and for a fracture of a moment, all Javier can hear is his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Slowly, more life flows into the tunnel and he can hear Diego and _Cuchu_ , but he can’t break Xavi’s holding gaze and can’t shrug off how easily his eyes cut straight into his mind and – 

He gets it.

Javier tries to call Leo an infinite amount of times in the next few weeks. He is a patient person, but eventually he’s fed up. “You know, you would have expected me to be happy for you,” he tells Leo’s voicemail. “I _would_ have been happy for you.”

 

“Would you do the honour, Capitano?” 

Diego’s smile splits his face right in half and it’s an expression mirrored in the faces of all his teammates. Javier is pretty sure that his own smile extends well beyond his ears. The silver of the cup is icy beneath his fingers, but when he lifts it over his head and the stadium erupts around him, all he can feel is infinite joy – and so much relief. 

Later on the pitch that has become sticky with champagne and is sprinkled with confetti, he sits down next to _Cuchu_ and playfully shoves him. His friend almost tumbles to the side, having consumed more champagne than spilled it. 

“Still think I’m cursed?” 

Esteban barks out a laugh and shakes his head, fireworks reflected in his eyes. “I take everything back, _Pupi._ Everything.” He drapes an arm around Javier’s shoulder and together they watch as Marco and Chivu chase Wesley across the pitch, who has tucked the trophy under his arm. “You know, I think Ibra might be the one who is cursed.”

“Not a very good deal after all, was it?” 

“Almost feel sorry for Barcelona,” Esteban says. “Almost.” 

“They’ll bounce back,” Javier comments, but it leaves a slightly bitter aftertaste. 

“Obviously. Hopefully not too well. I quite like this trophy.” He is quiet for a moment, then he glances over. “Have you talked to Leo?” 

Esteban might just as well have slapped him right across the face. Javier hopes he doesn’t flinch visibly. The last few weeks had been harder than expected. He hadn’t been aware of how much space Leo had taken up in his life and now that he’s suddenly just not there anymore – it just doesn’t feel right. But it’s not up to him. He’s done his part. 

“No,” he answers flatly. “I tried to call him, he didn’t answer, end of story.” 

“You sure?” 

Javier sighs heavily. “Listen, _Cuchu,_ do we have to talk about this now? Let me enjoy this trophy, it might be my last.”

 

 

 

The end of the season marks Mourinho’s end as their coach. His obsession is pushing him to take that last step and Javier is quite curious to see what he will turn Real Madrid into. He assumes that Mourinho will only be satisfied if he’s challenged Guardiola for every trophy there is. 

But that’s none of his business anymore. And what he’d hoped to be his business, at least for the summer, is far out of his reach. Although having played a part in the qualifying matches, Maradona doesn’t include him in the squad to travel to South Africa. Javier had seen it coming, but he can hold his head up high; he knows he has played and extraordinary season and it has nothing to do with his quality as a player. He knows it’s because Maradona doesn’t like his methods challenged – because he leaves Esteban behind as well. 

There is a great uproar in the media, in Argentina and Javier receives more interview requests than he is able to count; so he packs his family together and goes on holiday.

Esteban joins them just a week later, with his ex-wife and Victoria and together, they’re determined to not think and talk about football – specifically Leo, in Javier’s case, because as much as he tries to fight it, there’s probably not a minute that passes without him thinking about calling him after all. Simultaneously, he tries to focus on Sol and Nacho, on Paula, tries to relax and calm down after a season of almost too much excitement. 

He gets restless after two weeks. And he knows Esteban does too. They start going for runs, increasing the distance each day and eventually, they give up. 

“Do you think they can make it?” 

Javier takes a sip from his water bottle. “I don’t know, _Cuchu._ I want to think that they can. There is so much talent in that squad. But we’ve seen that talent doesn’t help if you can’t prepare tactically. And there are teams that have both.” 

“Spain,” Esteban says. “Xavi, Iniesta, Villa. And the Dutch have Wesley and Robben.” 

“Germany,” Javier adds. “A lot of talent coming through, very able coach. I’m not so sure about Brazil.” 

“I think Uruguay might be the underdog. Unlucky in the qualifiers, but if Forlán is in form, Suarez and Cavani. Very strong defence too.” He pauses and seconds later, Javier feels Esteban’s eyes on his burning skin. “Have you…?” 

He doesn’t need to finish the question. “No. I – it’s for the better.”

“That might be true. But you shouldn’t part like this, not after everything. Reality caught up with you; that happens. I just – have this feeling he might still need you. Even as a friend.” 

Javier doesn’t tell him that he’s had the same feeling ever since the Albiceleste arrived in South Africa.

 

The team wins narrowly against Nigeria. Gabriel scores the only goal in the 6th minute. Javier watches Maradona on the sideline, painfully misplaced in his suit, resembling a Mafioso rather than a football coach, holding a rosary tightly in his hands and he thinks, praying is not going to help. He is a faithful man, but every team is praying. God doesn’t decide football matches. 

Esteban mocks him because he can’t just sit back and watch. Instead he dissects the team and the mistakes they make, how the backline is so unorganized that it pains him. Clumsy tackles, careless marking; the team is lucky not to concede a goal. 

Against South Korea, it’s better. But, as Esteban rightfully points out, it’s South Korea. Higuaín scores a fantastic hattrick and is voted man of the match and people should be content with that, for now, there is still time to improve. Yet contentment isn’t a quality much found within Argentinean football and soon all newspapers and journalists are asking: _Messi, where are your goals?_

Javier wants to call him, he wants to call Leo so bad that his fingers itch constantly. He knows that their teammates will assure Leo and support him, appreciate him for all he does despite not scoring – but Javier wants him to know that he supports him as well. That he believes in him and misses him and that he – 

Leo captains Argentina against Greece on the day he turns twenty-three. He plays an incredible game from Javier’s point of view and orchestrates Argentina in a way that makes him think maybe – _maybe._ The officials name him man of the match. But the taunts continue.

“This is ridiculous,” Javier tells Esteban after one of their lengthier runs. “Nobody can completely reproduce club-form for their country.” 

“Only Spain,” Esteban replies. “because half their squad plays for Barcelona.” 

Javier doesn’t pay attention. “What about Carlos? What about Diego and Juan and Mario? And nobody seems to pick up that Martín is playing catastrophically.” There is no point in getting worked up, but he is still too invested in this team, understandably so. “Maradona isn’t helping either. He needs to get Leo out of the spotlight and not push him into it. If he continues to say that Leo is the second coming, then of course everybody is going to expect a miracle goal from him. Or to win every match on his own, which is even worse. He’s just feeding him to the wolves and –” 

“ _Pupi_?” Esteban interrupts him eventually. “Breathe, please. Your face is the colour of a crab.” 

Javier does breathe, but the hot air doesn’t seem to reach his lung.

 

  

It’s so much worse than Javier could have ever imagined. Four years ago, he had watched Esteban misfire a penalty after an intense and tight match and Argentina got kicked out, lacking just that tiny bit of luck. It’s not a tiny bit of luck this time, or a big bucket full. 

Javier can only watch in horror how his team – because they still are and always will be – gets absolutely hammered. Germany outclass them in the most painful of fashion. They never stand a chance and Javier feels sick to his stomach. He numbly watches as Leo walks of the pitch, devastation and desperation only visible to those who know him. Esteban wordlessly hands him a glass of _fernet_ and he finishes it without flinching. 

“Fuck,” Esteban brings it to the point. “Just – fuck.” 

Javier silently stares at the screen. The Albiceleste has already disappeared. His fingers itch, his hands cramp up and he rises to his feet. “I’m going for a run.” 

“Should I –” 

“No,” Javier cuts him off. “I need to – alone. I need to go alone.” 

He finds his shoes in the hallway, stuffs his phone into the pockets of his shorts and as he opens the door, he hears cautious steps behind him. Paula. 

“Javi?” Her glance is questioning and he can’t – he can’t look at her right now. His eyes are already burning and he is out the door before she can take another step towards him.

 

 

He runs for what feels like hours and it’s dark when he stops somewhere in the middle of nowhere, eyes wet and lungs burning and he swings his leg back, kicks against a wall with all his might. Pain sears up his leg and it hurts, but it distracts him from the iron claw that has dug into his chest. He leans back, sinks to the gravel, stretches out his legs and – nothing. 

There is absolutely nothing he can do. 

Javier takes his phone out of his pocket and stares at it blankly for a couple of minutes, then he drops it again. He doesn’t have the right to call him now. He should have accepted and understood, but he’d forgotten. Javier had simply forgotten how young Leo is, like everyone else and that it’s different for him, not because he wants it to be, but because he _is_ different. 

Javier should have swallowed his pride. And for the only time in the past years, he should have been the better man. 

Cutting through his thoughts like a knife, a shrill ring echoes in his ears and for a moment, Javier holds his phone up to his face and studies the unknown number on the display. 

_“Javier?”_  

It takes him a second to recognise the voice. Then he instantly snaps back into focus. “Kun?” 

_“Yes, hi, um… Sorry. I know you’re on holiday, but –”_ and his voice breaks slightly. 

It alarms him. “Are you okay?” 

Kun laughs dryly. _“Yeah, well – shell-shocked, I think. Still hoping to wake up, but I’ve pinched myself a few times already.”_

Javier breathes, wipes sweat off his face and it slides off his lips before he can even register. “How’s Leo?” 

Kun is quiet for a few beats. “ _That’s actually why I’m calling,”_ he tells him eventually. “ _I know that you – well, that you guys haven’t talked since – you know. But you’re the only one he really listens to and he told me that he misses you and –”_ He swallows thickly. “ _I think it would help. He just won’t stop crying.”_

It’s too much of a déjà-vu and not. So much has happened in four years and it seems unreal. Four years ago, Leo had been an unknown kid from Barcelona with a possibly bright future. Now he is the undisputed, best player in the world, but the outcome is still the same and yet unbelievably more cruel. They’d gone so far, he and Leo, and so far back again and it seems ridiculous now; some semi-final that should have done nothing to them. 

“Is he with you?” 

_“He’s next door. Just – give me a minute.”_

Javier gets to his feet and paces impatiently. He can hear a car in the faint distance, maybe some music, then shuffling though the phone; steps, sheet, Kun’s hushed voice. Then it’s silent. All air stops halfway up Javier’s throat as he tries to come up with anything. In the end, he just sighs heavily.

“I’m so sorry, Leo,” he says. For everything, for the Cup, for the semis, but he thinks Leo understands. “I really am. I should have been there for you this entire time.”

Nothing but muffled breathing is his reaction, but Javier didn’t expect Leo to immediately open up to him again. “I know I said the same thing four years ago,” he continues. “But I think so much has changed that you really do need to realise that you’re not the only player on this team. You couldn’t have won it on your own, and you certainly didn’t lose it on your own.” 

_“Thanks.”_

His voice is so quiet that Javier believes for an instant that he’s just imagining it. “Leo, you – don’t thank me. I should have called you earlier.” 

_“No,”_ Leo objects and his voice is so shaky that it almost makes Javier choke up too. _“I was being stupid and – I was just angry. But I miss you and fuck – I missed you every second and I missed you here and. We would have really needed you here, Javi. This is all – it’s all so fucked up.”_

His nails dig painfully into his palm. He had known, he had subconsciously sensed that things would go wrong. There is nothing he could have done on his own but damn, Javier should have found a way to at least lessen the blow for everyone. 

“I know it is. And – God, I miss you too,” Javier says and he almost adds, _so much that it physically hurts_. He hears a faint sob and it almost tears him apart. 

_“I know what he wanted from me. I know what he sees in me. And I can’t be that.”_

“You don’t have to be anyone but you. I know how much he means to you, Leo. But he was out of his way.” He pauses and clears his throat, wants nothing more than to sit down next to Leo, wipe hair out of his face drowned in tears, kiss him and look into his eyes until he can see _Leo_ in them again, just Leo; not what Maradona wants him to be or the media, not Argentina’s saviour or Barcelona’s talisman. “Do you remember what I told you when we played the Copa? I told you that every team has to experience highs and lows. You’ve experienced the low with Barcelona and you’ve risen higher than anyone before you. And I believe; I _know_ that you and Argentina will rise just as high. This just wasn’t the moment. Patience, remember?” he says. “Things will fall into place.” 

_“Okay,_ ” Leo replies, as if he knew every word would eventually come true. _“Okay.”_ He swallows thickly. _“Javi?”_

“Yes?” 

_“Are we…?”_

Javier feels an incredible weight falling off his chest. Air fills his lungs. “Yes, Leo. We are.”

 

  

Spain wins. Javier feels sorry for Wesley but he thinks that this time, the best team really triumphs, as well as the best football, and that’s what the World Cup should be about. Moreover, Leo calls again, or Javier calls him, every day, and he momentarily doesn’t care about anything else.

 

 

“Don’t say a word,” Wesley says on his first day back after the World Cup. 

Esteban just laughs. “I haven’t said anything.” 

“I know. Don’t.” 

Javier shakes his head. “You are going to be the cause of my retirement.”

 

“You will have to be the one to walk away,” Paula says to him out of the blue one evening after he has put Nacho to bed. Javier can only openly stare at her, but she keeps her eyes on the dishes and her composure intact. “I made a vow,” she continues like they’re talking about the weather. “I made a vow, and I am not going to walk away from that. If one of us walks, it will have to be you.” 

 

 

Maradona resigns. Thank God, Javier thinks, but nevertheless, it’s a surprise when Batista calls him up for a friendly against Spain in September. He feels a rush that he hasn’t felt since the Champions League final and he’s aware that it’s not simply to do with the fact that he’s returning for his country, playing against the World Champions – but because of Leo. 

Buenos Aires is sunny and hot and it’s home. And the Albiceleste is still home too, will be home again and it’s a relief to see that not much has changed between all of them. It’s a more cheerful gathering than the last time, understandably so and as soon as Javier sees Leo, his head starts to spin. As always, the greetings are kept brief and after a light training session and dinner, everyone retires to their respective rooms. 

The familiar knock sounds just minutes later and the door is opened before Javier gets the chance to answer it. How he’s managed months without him, Javier isn’t sure. Something is different, he immediately senses it and maybe reality has indeed caught up with them. But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. 

He pulls Leo close without wasting another thought on what has been and should have been and whatever emotion it is that washes over him – it’s exhilarating. Leo’s back hits the wall and the impact presses them close together, extracts a simultaneous gasp and hindering clothes are dispersed of quickly. As Leo pushes back and encircles Javier’s hips with his legs, Javier places his forearms against the rough stone, framing Leo’s head, cradling it with his hands. 

Leo snatches at his lips, pulls with his teeth and their eyes lock, foreheads rested together as Javier pushes in, thrusts increasing pace with every soft moan that escapes Leo, with every time he utters his name. 

Reality has caught up and eventually, it would overtake, but for now, neither of them really cares.

 

 

 

Javier hasn’t been spoilt by past seasons’ successes, but they draw a few times too many, lose against Roma, AC Milan and Chievo and Benitez doesn’t quite manage to follow Mourinho’s footsteps; not that he intends to, Javier is sure of that. But Mourinho surely left his mark. 

Barcelona get their revenge on Mourinho though. His star-studded squad gets positively hammered by Guardiola’s men and knowing his former coach, his calm composure after the match is mere façade. 

Leo calls him while he’s still celebrating at the Camp Nou. The noises in the background are deafening. 

“Well done,” Javier tells him, but he’s uncertain if Leo can even hear him over all the chanting. “That was quite a performance.” 

“ _Best match of my life,”_ Leo yells into the phone and Javier has to hold it a few inches away from his ears. “ _Even better than the 6-2. God, I wish you were here right now.”_

“Leo, you –” 

But Leo just laughs whole-heartedly. “ _Don’t worry, I wasn’t aiming for that sort of chat. Although that’d be nice.”_

 

 

The Club World Cup is another trophy that Javier can cross off his list in December. Nevertheless, Inter part ways with Benitez and install Leonardo as the new coach, but Javier feels calm about everything, especially after his extension, binding him to the club until 2013 and he’s already pledged his future to Inter on numerous occasions. They’re still playing in all competitions and Javier has won them all before; he’s confident they can do it again. 

Things go well on all fronts until April. Schalke demolishes Inter at the San Siro, almost as bad as Barcelona had humiliated Real Madrid months before, only that this is the Champions League, and they’re the defending champions, and it’s the semi-final. Diego mutters something about Karma, for which Júlio whacks him over the head with his gloves. Leo calls, as always, and Javier is grateful that he hasn’t picked up on the Karma talk.

The league slips away just as Barcelona takes revenge for the Copa loss. Leo scores another century-goal and without giving in to Mourinho’s mind games – Javier still remembers them vividly – they progress to the final. 

Inter finishes the season second for the first time in a long time and Javier senses a feeling creeping over him that things are about to change. He’s been telling Leo so much about the highs and lows of the game, about beginnings and endings of cycles that he should’ve taken into account that Inter’s cycle might be vulnerable to a cut as well.

 

 

Manchester United never stands a chance. Leo doesn’t score with his head, but with his foot and Wembley erupts in chants. It might be Barcelona’s era. But it’s definitely Leo’s.

 

 

As Leo’s cycle is just beginning, Javier knows that his is coming to an end, at least for Argentina. It’s nothing he feels particularly sad about, although he regrets not having contributed to a major trophy – yet. 

It’s his last Copa América. And it’s in their own country, played on their pitches with an entire nation behind them. This has to be it, he tells himself, this just has to be it. There’s an incredible motivation amongst them and although Batista might not be the perfect coach, he knows the game, he’s got a technical and tactical understanding of it. It’s not ideal, but it could be. 

Most nights, Leo sneaks into his room. Sometimes they sleep together, sometimes they just talk. The night before the first match against Bolivia, they just lie on the bed in silence until the sun rises and floods the room with light. 

The draw somewhat dampens their spirits. 

“He needs to let Kun start,” Leo tells him. “Or at least Pipita. I know them better than Eze and Carlitos. We would create more chances and our own fans wouldn’t whistle us off.” 

Javier assures Leo that Batista will figure it out, but he doesn’t. They play Colombia in almost the same line-up and suddenly, after another draw, this great idea of finishing off his international career in style, to get Argentina this trophy on their home turf – it moves into the distance.

And of course the focus is on Leo. Argentina hasn’t learned a thing since the World Cup, but it doesn’t surprise Javier. He’s just glad that he is there this time and he hopes that at least one of the many interviews in which he states the importance of team work and of the entire squad coming together will sink in. 

Against Costa Rica, it’s all or nothing, And Batista finally catches on, shuffles them around, with Zaba and him on the flanks, Masche, Fernando and Ángel in midfield and Leo, Kun and Pipita up front. If Javier were to be picky, he’d suggest using Leo as a centre forward, but it’s a start. And it works. Kun scores a brace and Ángel gets one in too, but once again, Leo initiates everything and is the conductor of every goal. Javier picks up a yellow, but he doesn’t mind, because they’re through to the quarter-finals after finally finding a winning combination of players.

 

 

“I need to end this drought,” Leo whispers against his skin later that night. 

“I once had a five year drought,” Javier says and pulls at Leo’s hair, which is the shortest he’s ever had it. Maybe he’s feeling nostalgic, but he thinks he misses Leo’s rebellious mop. 

Leo chuckles. It tickles his chest. “Sorry Javi, but you’re a defender. Defenders don’t have to score.” 

“I know. But they can.” 

He can tell that Leo rolls his eyes. “Lets see if you can against Uruguay.”

  

 

He can’t. And Carlos can’t either. He misses the crucial penalty in the shootout after 120 minutes.

 

  

The field is frozen beneath Javier’s boots and the air is so cold that it hits his skin like a slap with every harsh movement. It’s so quiet that he can hear his own steady pulse beating in the night. The sky in Santa Fe has cleared since the end of the match and Javier is tempted to count the stars sprinkled onto the almost black canopy. 

_This is it_ , he thinks. 145 appearances for the Albiceleste; not one trophy. He wonders if that’s his balance, the low to his high with Inter and he figures, perhaps. But it’s frustrating, because as much as he knows what he’s done for Inter; he’s not sure if he ever gave the same to Argentina. 

A soft thud rips through his thoughts and then Leo is standing out on their training pitch with him, in clothes that are far too big; he’s balancing a ball on his left foot. When he feels Javier’s eyes on him, he looks up, then softly nudges the ball and sends it over to him. It rolls and wobbles slightly on the unevenly frozen pitch and Javier stops it with the tip of his boot. He picks it up, spins it around between his fingers and watched the lines twist. After a few moments he raises his glance and Leo is standing right in front of him. 

“Are you going to tell me that this is just another low?” 

Javier smiles half-heartedly. “No. But I think I’ve figured it out.” 

“Figured what out?” Leo asks. 

“That this is my low,” he answers. “So I’m handing over to you.” Leo seems like he’s about to protest. “I mean it. It’s up to you to turn it around. You will captain this team and you will steer it into the right direction.” 

Leo’s eyes flicker between his face and the ball in his hands. “I – I don’t know if I can do this.” 

“Of course you can. You’re on a roll, remember?” 

The corners of Leo’s mouth twitch and suddenly his eyes appear glassy as he continues to look right at him, into him, like always and Javier thinks that this is the moment when it dawns on both of them, without particular reason and quite unspectacularly perhaps, regarding everything else they’ve been through and faced. 

Javier drops the football and it hobbles off. He takes Leo’s icy hand and they sit down, lie back despite the freezing cold and gaze up into the darkest hour Argentina has to offer them. 

“Do you remember my debut?” 

“How could I forget that disaster?” Javier asks back. “A few seconds on the pitch and you get a straight red. I’m sure that’s a record, too.” 

Leo gives him a shove, but when Javier turns his head, he can see him smiling. “You told me that I’d get my proper debut. That’s where it started for me,” he says and Javier understands what he means. “It’s strange that this is how it ends.” 

It is strange indeed, Javier guesses, their entire journey. But he stops himself in his own thoughts, because when he thinks about it, about this, about _everything_ – this isn’t their journey and it’s not an end. Towards the end of his road, Leo had joined him and they had walked together for a while, but now Javier has to stop, has to say goodbye, although he wants nothing more than to keep on walking. 

But that’s not life. Under different circumstances, with better timing, then Javier might have gone a bit farther. Then he might have been able to walk with Leo until the next crossing, the last dead end. 

“Javi?” 

“Yes?” 

Leo squeezes his hand. “I…” 

Javier closes his eyes and takes Leo’s fingers with equal force. His throat is burning. “I know,” he breathes. “I do too.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Javier Zanetti started playing for Inter Milan in 1995. He received the Captain’s armband in 1999. Fans called him “Captain Fantastic” because of the many trophies the club won under his captaincy. He is Argentina’s most capped player behind Javier Mascherano and a former captain.  
> 2\. Lionel Messi, alongside Sergio Agüero, Fernando Gago and others, was the key player for Argentina’s U20 National squad when they won the Youth World Cup in Holland in 2005. Messi received both Golden Ball and Boot.  
> 3\. Esteban Cambiasso, Walter Samuel, Hernán Crespo and Nicolás Burdisso, teammates of Zanetti at both Inter and the NT.  
> 4\. Messi was indeed sent off within minutes of his debut. Maradona later complained that the referee’s decision had been premeditated.  
> 5\. Despite recovering from a muscle tear in time, Messi still didn’t make the bench for the CL final against Arsenal. It is rumoured that despite the team’s win, he was deeply disappointed for not playing.  
> 6\. The Serie A scandal of 2006 involved many high-profile teams, such as Juventus, AC Milan, Lazio etc. Referees had been assigned to specific games, accompanied by rumours of bribery. As punishment, Juventus was relegated whereas other teams only lost the points from said matches. Inter won the title after originally being third.  
> 7\. Although featuring in the qualifying games for the WC 2006, the Argentina coach Pekerman did not include Zanetti in his final squad, which wasn’t well received by media and public. Argentina then went on to lose out to Germany in the quarterfinal, after a penalty shootout.  
> 8\. In the Champions League match against Celtic, Messi suffered a muscle tear for the fourth consecutive time, resulting in a six-week sideline-spell. Afterwards, club and coaching staff made severe changes to his training and diet to prevent future injuries.  
> 9\. In his book “Barça – The making of the greatest team in the world”, Graham Hunter describes Barcelona’s quest for a new coach to succeed Rijkaard and Mourinho was top of the list. However, after meeting with the then Chelsea manager, they concluded that they didn’t agree with his methods and simply didn’t like him.  
> 10\. The controversial decision to name Argentina legend Diego Maradona coach for the Albiceleste was made in December 2008, after Basile’s resignation. Maradona beat Sergio Batista to the job, who had led Argentina to Olympic gold.  
> 11\. After winning the first matches, Maradona’s Argentina lost 6-1 to bottom-of-table Bolivia in the World Cup qualifiers. The match sparked a big wave of criticism that wouldn’t die down until Maradona’s resignation in 2010.  
> 12\. There have been constant rumours and references linking Messi to Internazionale; one being Moratti willing to pay any price to have him at his club, the other specifically with reference to Zanetti’s future as a sports director or possible coach. Zanetti has stated that Messi told him he wouldn’t leave Barça, but has recently added that he would like to be the one to make that future move possible.  
> 13\. Inter Milan progressed on 3-2 aggregate, but both matches sparked discussions about controversial referee decisions.  
> 14\. Unexpectedly and at last minute, Maradona decided to leave both Zanetti and Cambiasso out of the squad for the 2010 World Cup, despite their strong performances for both club and country. Instead, he called up Ariel Garcé, who eventually didn’t play a single minute.  
> 15\. Maradona resigned after the World Cup, officially due to disagreements of coaching staff. The AFA appointed Sergio Batista as new head coach, who had previously led Argentina to Olympic gold. After the quarterfinal exit against Uruguay in the Copa América 2011, Batista was replaced by Alejandro Sabella.


End file.
